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JAMES    JACKSON  JARVES 
Drawn  by  himself. 


A  BRIEF  MEMOIR 

OF 

JAMES  JACKSON  JARVES,  JR. 


BY  HIS  FATHER 


IVITH  A  PORTRAIT  AND  THIRTY 
IIL  USTRA  TIONS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

1891 


TO  THE  READER 


The  advice  of  friends  who  knew  the  hoy,  with  my 
own  ■persuasion  that  his  example  of  serious  study  might 
do  good  service  to  other  youths  whose  chosen  voca- 
tion is  Art,  induce  me,  after  long  hesitation,  to  offer 
this  brief  sketch  to  the  public,  as  well  as  to  his  per- 
sonal friends  :  to  share,  with  those  inclined  to  partake,  a 
narrative,  which  viewed  in  any  other  light  is  of  too 
private  and  sacred  a  nature  to  be  lightly  shown  to 
strangers.  Were  it  not  for  the  profound  lesson  the  lad's 
life  affords  to  lads  of  similar  promise  in  the  soundness 
of  the  principles  and  intense  application  and  passion 
which  guided  his  intuitive  choice  of  an  aim  in  life, 
I  would  not  overcome  the  reluctance  to  disclose  so 
deep  a  sorrow  to  the  world's  ga{e.  But  I  believe  there 
is  in  the  universal  heart  of  humanity  a  vital  sym- 
pathy with,  afid  appreciation  of  simple  truth  and  sin- 
cerity of  purpose ,  however  personal,  if  told  without 
exaggeration  in  view  of  a  general  utility,  that  will 
ensure  a  welcome  to  this  tale  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  is 
written.  A  gifted  friend  and  author,  whose  "  love  and 
admiration  of  Pepero,"  to  use  his  words,  were  almost 
equal  to  my  own,  wrote  of  him  :  "  There  never  was 
greater  promise  lost  to  the  world  than  when  he  died. " 


—   10  — 


Only  those,  however,  jpho  were  familiar  with  the  boy's 
daily  life  can  quite  appreciate  the  full  meaning  of 
this  heartfelt  eulogium. 

It  is  scarcely  just  either  to  my  son  or  his  friend 
to  merely  present  this  story  in  justification  of  our 
opinions.  There  was  very  much  in  his  daily  talk, 
opinions  and  actions,  in  his  entire  devotion  to  art  and 
science,  and  the  rare  qualities  of  his  mind  and  heart 
that  was  better  felt  than  can  be  expressed  by  words. 
My  own  are  inadequate  to  delineate  his  character 
and  aims  as  they  daily,  hourly,  impressed  those  jvho 
saw  him  in  the  modest  sanctity  of  his  life -effort. 
Consequently  I  say  but  little,  preferring  to  leave  his 
own  unachieved  work  and  hints  of  the  powers  in  him 
to  tell  in  their  own  way  to  kindred  tastes  and  ambi- 
tions the  story  of  his  few  short  years  of  earth-life. 


Paris,  March,  1888. 


WORK. 


"If  some  great  angel  spake  to  me  to  night, 
The  awful  language  of  the  unknown  land, 
Bidding  me  choose  from  treasure  infinite, 
From  goodly  gifts  and  treasure  in  his  hand. 
The  thing  I  coveted,  what  would  I  take? 
Fame's  wreath  of  bays?  the  fickle  world's  esteem? 
Nay,  greenest  bays  may  wane  on  brows  that  ache 
And  world's  applauding  passeth  as  a  dream. 
Should  I  choose  Love  to  fill  my  empty  heart 
With  soft,  strong  sweetness,  as  in  days  of  old? 
Nay,  for  Love's  rapture  hath  an  after-smart, 
And  in  Love's  rose  the  thorns  are  manifold. 
Should  I  choose  Life,  with  long  succeeding  years 
Nay,  earth's  long  life  is  longer  time  for  tears. 
I  would  choose  Work  and  never  failing  power 
To  work  without  weak  hindrance  by  the  way, 
Without  recurrence  of  a  weary  hour 
When  tired,  tyrant  Nature  holds  its  sway 
Over  the  busy  brain  and  toiling  hand. 
Ah!  if  an  angel  came  to  me  to-night, 
Speaking  in  language  of  the  unknown  land, 
So  would  I  choose  from  treasure  infinite. 
But  well  I  know  the  blessed  gift  I  crave, 
The  tireless  strength  for  never  ending  task, 
Is  not  for  this  life.    But  beyond  the  grave 
It  may  be  I  shall  tind  the  thing  I  ask; 
For  I  believe  there  is  a  better  land. 
Where  will  and  work  and  strength,  go  hand  in  hand 


*All  the  Year  Round. 


oJk*  '•jjk*    •Jjk*  1^    tJjij  *^  *^-» 


JAMES   JACKSON  JARVES. 

The  subject  of  this  biographical  sketch  was  born  at 
Florence,  Italy,  March  loth,  1869.  He  was  named 
after  the  writer,  his  father,  James  Jackson  Jarves. 
Owing  to  his  vivacious  disposition,  physical  energy 
and  activity,  he  speedily  acquired  the  pet  nickname  of 
Peperone,  contracted  into  Pepero,  which  was  first 
given  by  the  Italian  domestics,  but  soon  adopted  by 
everyone.  It  was  so  characteristic  that  it  clung  to 
him,  and  he  was  never  called  amongst  us  by  his  proper 
name. 

A  poetical  neighbor,  P.  Pietrocola  Rossetti,  a  cou- 
sin of  Dante  Rossetti,  with  whom  he  became  a  great 
favorite,  was  so  impressed  by  his  sprightliness  that 
he  composed  the  following  jeu  d'esprit  and  subse- 
quently printed  it  in  a  little  volume  of  his  poems  at 
Florence  in  1876.  Mr.  Rossetti  had  been  the  first  to 
call  him  peperone,  or  great  peppercorn,  on  account 
of  his  vigor  and  forcible,  jocose  self-assertion  whilst 
at  play.  Before  he  could  stand  alone  and  was  obliged 
to  be  supported  by  his  cestino — ^a  wicker  cage  broad 
at  the  bottom  and  narrow  at  the  top,  used  in  Italy  for 
babies — 'he  would  dart  across  the  room  gyrating  with 
outspread  arms  like  a  whirling  dervish,  with  a  rapi- 
dity that  made  one  giddy  to  look  at  him;  his  hand- 


-   14  — 

some  features  and  dark  eyes  gleaming  with  fun  as 
he  escaped  his  pursuers  and  evaded  their  caresses. 
Putting  aside  the  partiality  of  a  parent  and  looking  at 
him  as  he  was  then,  solely  in  an  artistic  and  physical 
aspect,  I  venture  to  say  that  a  handsomer,  healthier 
and  more  harmoniously  developed  infant  in  body  and 
brain  it  w^ould  have  been  difficult  to  find.  At  this 
period  no  one  surmised  the  direction  his  mind  would 
take  in  its  rapid  growth.  All  loved  him  for  his 
genuine  boyish  nature;  his  roguery  and  agilty;  the 
sparkle  of  his  intelligence;  the  ingenuity  with  which 
he  diverted  himself  and  his  indifference  to  the  usual 
fulsome  endearments  bestowed  on  engaging  infancy. 

It  was  the  frequent  observation  of  these  qualities 
which  inspired  Signor  Rossetti  to  compose  his  poem, 
calling  it  "Pepino" — the  nome  d'amore,  love  name  "  of 
J.  J.  Jarves,  jr.,"  a  softened  diminution  of  Pepero. 
No  translation,  short  of  a  born  poet's,  can  do  justice 
to  the  rythmic  delicacy  and  fancy  of  his  verses.  Their 
subtle,  joyous  play  of  words  and  spirit  baffle  tran- 
scription into  prosaic  Anglo-Saxon.  They  have  now 
become  a  very  precious  souvenir  of  his  happy  infancy, 
embalming,  as  an  insect  in  amber,  the  spirit  and 
form  of  the  "  caro  e  simpatico  bambino  " — dear  and 
sympathetic  child — as  his  Italian  friends  always  called 
him.    Here  they  arc  :  — 


PEPINO 


NINNA,  NANNA 

cc  Tutto  fuoco,  e  lampi,  e  fiaainia 
Ne'  belli  occhi  sfolgoranti, 
Rimirate  1'  amorino 

Mio  Pepino, 

Solfanino, 
Ruba-cori  della  Mamma. 

Creatura  inerme  e  frale 
Nel  cestino  rinserrato 
Salta  come  un'  angellino! 

Di'  Pepino 

Farfallino 
Dove  mai  nascondi  1'  ale? 

Ei  non  paria,  e  ognun  1'  intende  ; 
Non  favella,  ma  cinguetta  — 
Ma  il  parlar  del  bambolino 

Mio  Pepino 

Ginguettino 
E  d'  amor  che  1'  alme  accende. 

S'  egli  viene  dalle  stelle, 
Certo,  b  Marte  il  suo  planeta, 
Perch^  questo  paladino 
Mio  Pepino 
Litighino, 
-  Urla  e  batte  le  sorelle. 

Se  dal  pargolo  dell'  Ida 
Viene,  egli  t  tonante  Giove, 


—  i6  — 


Che  nel  suo  furor  divino 

E  Pepino 

Un  Achillino 
Che  minaccia,  e  tuona,  e  grida! 

Se  da  Palladc  discende 
Egli  e  cima  di  dottori, 
Ma  il  saper  del  mio  bambino 

Bel  Pepino 

Sacccntino 
Dotto  e  tal  che  raiun  1'  intende. 

Se  da  Venere  egli  viene 
Guai  per  tuttc  le  fanciulle! 
Perche  il  vispo  cicciutino 
Mio  Pepino, 
E  un  amorino 
Ch'  arde  il  sangue  nelle  vene, 

.  Ma  neir  impeto  d'  amorc 
Sclama  onnai  la  Genitricc  : 
Questo  caro  Cherubino, 
Bel  Pepino, 
Brindino, 
M'  e  venuto  dal  Signore!  — 

Tutto  fuoco,  e  lampi,  e  fiamma 
Ne'  belli  occhi  sfolgoranti, 
Rimiratc  V  amorino 

Mio  Pepino, 

Solfamino, 
Ruba-cori  dalla  Mamma  !  » 

The  following  rude,  prosaic  translation  of  Mr.  R.'s 
poem  may  give,  to  those  unacquainted  with  Italian, 
some  imperfect  idea  of  his  meaning  :— 


PEPINO 


NINA,   NANA  (lullaby). 

All  lire,  lightning  and  flame 
In  his  beautiful  flashing  eyes  ; 
Behold  the  Cupidino, 

Little  volcano, 
Who  steals  his  mother's  heart. 

Creature  unarmed  and  frail 
Within  his  wicker  cage, 
Jumps  like  a  little  bird, 

Pepinino — 

Little  butterfly. 
Where  do  you  hide  your  wings  ? 

He  talks  not;  ail  understand  him, 

No  speech,  but  prattle — ■ 

The  language  of  the  boy-babe. 

My  Pepino, 

Little  chatterer. 
Is  of  love  that  flres  the  soul. 

If  he  come  from  the  stars, 
Surely  Mars  is  his  planet; 
For  this  little  knight—  ■ 

My  Pepino, 

Little  disputer — 
Shouts  and  strikes  his  sisters. 

If  from  the  cradle  of  Olympus 
He  comes,  he  is  a  thundering  Jove 


—  i8  — 


This  in  his  fury  divine, 

Is  Pepino, 

An  infant  Achilles 
Who  threatens,  thunders  and  scolds. 

If  from  Minerva  he  springs, 

He  is  the  wisest  of  scholars, 

The  learning  of  my  boy, 
Beautiful  Pepino, 
Conceited  little  one, 

So  wise  that  none  understand  him. 

If  from  Venus  he  comes. 
Beware  little  girls! 
For  the  chubby  fellow. 

My  Pepino, 

Is  a  Cupidino 
To  fire  the  blood  in  the  veins. 

"  In  the  ardor  of  love  " 
Now  exclaims  his  mother, 
"  This  dear  Cherub, 

Beautiful  Pepino, 

Lively  little  blond. 
Comes  to  me  from  the  Lord. 

"  All  fire,  lightning  and  flame 
In  his  beautiful  eyes  flashing, 
Behold  the  god  of  love! 

My  Pepino, 

Little  volcano — 
Heart-robber  of  mama." 


Pepero 
at  a  very 


gave  indications  of  a  love  of  the  beautiful 
early  age.  Indeed,  he  was  averse  to  asso- 


—  iq  — 

ciate  with  persons  not  comely  in  his  eyes ,  always 
manifesting  an  intuitive  repugnance  to  physical 
defects.  Making  a  visit  with  his  mother  when  he  was 
three  years  old,  in  seeing  some  indifferent  pictures  on 
the  walls,  as  he  left  the  house  he  exclaimed  :  "How 
can  live  in  the  sight  of  such  things?" 

His  sisters  and  he  had  agreed  to  draw  the  curious 
things  they  saw  in  the  streets  as  a  sort  of  game. 
The  elder  girls  did  their  part  in  the  usual  juvenile 
fashion  of  triangular  heads  with  dots  and  lines  for 
features  of  men  and  animals.  Pepero,  on  the  contrary, 
began  at  once  to  introduce  into  his  designs  eyes, 
noses,  mouths  and  forms  in  general  after  nature,  not 
being  at  all  pleased  with  the  orthodox  hieroglyphics 
of  early  childhood. 

He  was  five  years  old  when  he  surprised  his  com- 
panions by  a  regular  composition.  Being  permitted  to 
attend  school  with  his  sisters,  when  the  teacher  was 
out  of  the  room  he  went  to  the  black-board  and  drew 
a  cow  with  a  number  of  droll  imps  skipping  on  its  back 
in  a  ludicrous  fashion.  It  was  so  cleverly  done  as  to 
surprise  and  amuse  all  the  pupils  and  win  a  pardon 
from  the  teacher  on  his  return  for  the  breach  of  disci- 
pline and  the  excitement  it  caused.  Pepero's  cow  and 
devils  were  a  laughable  tradition  of  the  school  ever 
afterward. 

In  his  earlier  years  he  showed  small  disposition 
for  book- study,  or  none  at  all,  but  was  active  in 
boyish  sports  and  amusements.    Thoughtful  and  of 


  20   


quick  observation,  he  preferred  the  society  of  adults. 
His  health  was  so  uniformly  good  and  his  personal 
appearance  so  fine  that  he  seemed  to  us  all  to  be  an 
ideal  boy  in  strength  and  looks. 

Young  as  he  was  he  began  to  be  interested  in  the 
lives  of  eminent  artists,  preferring  to  hear  about 
Michael  Anoelo  to  all  the  others.  He  was  still  disin- 
clined  to  read  himself  or  to  learn  to  write.  When  ral- 
lied on  his  ignorance,  he  would  retort  :  "Michael  An- 
gelo  would  not  study  when  a  boy  and  yet  he  became 
a  great  artist.  '  This,  with  similar  remarks,  were  the 
first  indications  he  gave  of  any  special  bias  for  art. 
Indeed,  in  picturing  myself  his  possible  future,  I 
thought  he  might  choose  some  adventurous^  active 
career,  something  that  would  afford  scope  for  his  phy- 
sical energies,  or  else  the  career  of  a  scientist;  for  his 
mind  was  eminently  logical,  questioning,  analytical 
and  penetrating  in  its  primary  action.  Apparently  he 
had  a  physical  and  intellectual  constitution  equal  to 
any  aim  in  these  directions. 

In  his  seventh  year  a  change  took  place.  He 
became  more  quiet,  reserved  and  almost  solitary  in 
his  habits,  ceasing  to  care  for  his  playmates,  and 
intensely  eager  to  hear  and  talk  about  art.  He  loved 
to  ramble  alone  about  Florence,  studying  its  monu- 
ments and  the  shop  windows  where  modern  art  was 
exposed.  His  remarks  on  all  he  saw  indicated  a 
critical  and  humorous  disposition,  and  were  singularly 
just,  entertaining  and  original.    He  was  not  long  con- 


tent  to  merely  observe,  and  began  to  ask  for  materials 
for  work.  These  were  given  with  a  view  to  amuse 
rather  than  as  a  serious  occupation.  But  he  speedily 
convinced  us  that  he  was  in  sober  earnest  in  his  use 
of  them. 

About  this  time  his  health  began  to  cause  some 
anxiety,  although  no  alarm.  In  May,  1876,  he  came 
back  to  Florence  from  a  visit  to  a  villa  at  Signa  with 
a  cough  that  never  altogether  left  him.  His  general 
condition  seemed  so  sound  that  we  looked  on  it  as 
only  a  temporary  indisposition.  It  could  not,  how- 
ever, long  be  disguised  that  he  began  to  lose,  slowly 
it  is  true,  his  look  of  beautiful,  perfect  boyhood,  such 
as  the  old  Greeks  rejoiced  in  as  the  divinest  of  gifts. 
He  -grew  more  and  more  delicate  in  appearance,  with 
an  increasingly  thoughtful  look.  Long  walks,  hill 
and  mountain  excursions  were,  notwithstanding,  as 
much  a  pleasure  as  ever.  Indeed,  his  ambition  knew 
no  limits  in  this  kind  of  exercise.  Believing  that  it 
would  strengthen  him,  he  was  permitted  to  go  to  the 
Apennines  during  the  hot  months,  and  occasionally  to 
join  in  the  excursions  of  the  Alpinists.  He  held  his 
own  with  them,  not  only  without  apparent  exhaustion, 
but  with  an  ease  and  agility  that  surprised  his  adult 
companions. 

Whether  it  were  wise,  in  the  light  of  subsequent 
experience,  to  have  consented  to  these  protracted 
walks,  despite  his  enjoyment  of  them,  may  be  doubted. 
Indeed,  his  physicians  soon  pronounced  against  moun- 


tain  air  and  recommended  the  seaside.  Here  the 
pulmonary  symptoms  rapidly  grew  worse.  Thence- 
forth, a  medium  air,  between  the  two,  was  sought 
in  summer.  With  unremitting  care ,  this  regime 
served  to  prolong  his  life  for  a  few  short,  alas!  how 
short,  years! 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  longer  on  his  continued 
and  increasing  invalidism  from  this  period,  other  than 
to  explain  the  difficulties  he  encountered  in  his  pursuit 
of  art;  to  show  his  physical  limitations,  and  the  little 
time  that  he  could  give  to  its  study.  Our  experience 
was  the  too  common  one  of  deferred  hopes,  alternating 
with  gleams  of  possible  cure,  which  attend  all  cases 
of  slow  decline.  We  could  not  forget  that  the  first 
seven  years  of  his  young  life  had  been  passed  in 
a  degree  of  sound  health  that  rarely  falls  to  the 
lot  of  any  mortal.  No  sufficient  cause  could  now 
be  detected  for  the  extreme  delicacy  of  constitution 
and  the  change  which  had  set  in.  Hope,  and  even  a 
belief,  that  the  original  vigor  would  reassert  itself, 
constantly  sprang  up  in  our  minds  amid  much  fear 
and  trembling.  But  thenceforth  it  became  a  sad- 
dening, prolonged,  fluctuating  struggle  for  us  all  to 
preserve  his  foothold  on  the  steps  of  time,  deluded 
by  the  heart's  theory  that  at  his  age  he  must  out- 
grow his  complaint.  As  for  himself,  so  insiduous 
and  changeful  were  his  symptoms  that  he  never  seemed 
to  realize  their  fatal  tendency^  but  regarded  his  frail 
condition  as  his  normal  phase  of  life  up  to  the  very 


—  23  — 


last  year  of  his  being-.  Every  fear,  if  any,  and  other 
feeling  were  absorbed  in  an  intense  desire  to  work; 
to  express  himself  in  art.  How  much  he  was  self- 
cheered  by  the  idea  that  good  health  was  only  a 
question  of  prudence  and  time,  we  never  knew.  He 
never  complained  of  suffering,  or  indeed  anything. 
But  there  was  so  much  philosophical  stoicism  com- 
bined with  a  sensitive  reserve  and  regard  for  others 
in  his  character,  that  he  undoubtedly  concealed  much 
that  he  felt  or  doubted,  lest  it  might  increase  our 
sufferings,  and  also  not  to  admit  that  all  the  efforts 
to  save  him  could  have  but  one  fatal  ending.  He 
would  neither  confess  nor  acknowledge  anything  that 
might  by  any  possibility  lessen  his  zeal  and  right,  as 
he  viewed  it,  of  work.  Sorrowful  he  often  was,  when 
withheld  from  doing  all  his  spirit  craved,  and  at  all 
hours,  without  the  relaxation  that  even  the  strong 
man  needs.  While  working  he  was  supremely  content 
and  happy;  experiencing  a  degree  of  pleasure  that 
few  mortals  win  from  any  source  even  with  super- 
abundant health.  The  short  periods  of  study  allowed 
him  were  prized  as  emphatically  his  own  and  not  to 
be  broken  into  for  any  reason.  The  usual  limits  were 
from  half  an  hour  to  one  hour,  occasionally  extending 
his  working  day  to  three  or  four  hours,  besides  the 
intervals  of  rest.  So  jealous  was  he  of  every  minute 
that  the  loss  of  a  single  one  was  a  real  torture.  "My 
head  is  so  full  of  ideas,  I  must  work  them  out  or 
die.  I  would  rather  die  than  be  idle!"  he  would  pro- 


—  24  — 

test.  Even  the  time  given  to  repose  was  prolific  of 
inventive  thought  to  be  subsequently  noted  down. 

Once  having  given  his  word  not  to  exceed  his  time, 
whatever  the  temptation  might  be  to  do  more,  he 
scrupulously  kept  it.  But  he  rigidly  exacted  every 
second  that  he  could  call  his  own  and  be  left  undis- 
turbed with  his  thoughts  and  work.  The  greater  part 
of  the  day  had  to  be  taken  up  with  outdoor  exercise 
as  the  best  panacea  that  could  be  proscribed  for  him. 
For  a  time  he  was  permitted  to  go  to  the  galleries 
of  Florence  for  an  hour  or  two  several  times  a  week 
with  a  student's  pass  for  making  notes  or  sketches. 
These  visits  were  unalloyed  bliss.  Instead  of  looking 
superficially  at  many  objects,  he  concentrated  his 
attention  on  a  few  of  the  best  until  he  knew  each 
thoroughly.  Nothing  escaped  his  acute  observation 
and  retentive  memory. 

He  was  never  strong  enough  to  frequent  studios, 
attend  the  academies  or  schools,  work  from  life  or 
follow  any  of  the  usual  methods  of  art  instruction. 
Besides  his  own  much  interrupted  and  broken  obser- 
vations and  exercises,  the  help  of  engravings,  photo- 
graphs, casts,  etc.,  the  sole  help  he  had  was  from 
an  artist  friend,  a  clever  genre  painter,  who  gave  him 
some  lessons  in  elementary  drawing  and  hints  on  the 
use  of  materials.  But  both  he  and  other  artists,  after 
seeing  the  skill  and  invention  he  showed  in  his  own 
work ,  declared  they  could  teach  him  nothing.  All 
that  he  needed  was  to  observe  the  methods  of  eminent 


artists  by  frequenting  their  studios,  particularly  their 
ways  of  manipulation,  and  to  study  direct  from  nature. 
But  this  was  just  what  he  could  not  do.  The  time 
never  came  when  he  could  follow  their  counsel, 
although  he  so  hungered  and  thirsted  for  it. 

All  that  he  accomplished  was  the  fruit  of  solitary, 
unaided  study,  in  his  sparse  working  hours.  His  habit 
was  to  destroy  his  sketches  because  they  failed  to 
satisfy  his  ideal.  No  praise  ever  made  him  think  one 
whit  better  of  anything  he  ever  did  and  no  adverse 
criticism  ever  disheartened  him.  Knowing  what  he 
wished  to  do,  and  failing  to  satisfy  himself,  he  was  indif- 
ferent to  the  opinions  of  others.  In  truth,  his  ever- 
rising  ideal  would  have  always  soared  above  his  reach, 
however  prolonged  his  life  had  been. 

Silent,  modest,  and  reserved,  it  was  with  extreme 
reluctance  that  he  ever  consented  to  show  anyone  his 
attempts.  It  has  been  almost  by  force  and  stealth  that 
any  were  preserved.  Some  of  the  best  he  ruthlessly 
destroyed  without  warning.  By  photographing  a  few 
of  his  drawings  and  designs  unknown  to  him  at  the 
time,  and  selecting  from  the  studies  found  in  his  port- 
folios at  his  decease,  I  am  able  to  give  an  imperfect 
idea,  in  the  illustrations,  of  the  direction  and  quality 
of  his  boyish  art. 

Before  explaining  them,  I  will  relate  an  incident 
of  his  twelfth  year  which  shows  what  an  emphatic 
hold  Michael  Angelo  had  taken  of  his  mind  even 
at    that   early    age.      Indeed,  his    passion   for  this 


—  26  — 


artist  was  a  veritable  worship.  His  mere  name  in- 
spired him  with  reverential  awe.  In  character  and  in 
work  Michael  Angelo  was  his  great  example  and  ideal. 
He  cared  not  for  the  companionship  of  anyone  who 
did  not  share  his  sentiments  and  appreciate  the  great 
master  as  he  did  himself. 

Previously,  the  sense  of  beauty  and  harmony  of 
the  Greeks  had  most  impressed  him.  Phidias  con- 
tinued to  receive  an  almost  equal  share  of  his  admi- 
ration, but  his  epoch  was  too  remote  and  his  works 
too  little  known  or  too  inaccessible  for  them  to  excite 
in  him  so  vital  an  interest  as  did  those  of  the  immortal 
Tuscan  which  he  daily  saw,  and  whose  memory  is  still 
omnipresent  in  his  native  land.  Not  that  he  ever 
faltered  in  his  appreciation  of  classical  art,  as  some 
of  his  designs  serve  to  show,  but  the  supernal  cha- 
racter and  profounder  imagination  displayed  by  Michael 
Angelo,  joined  to  a  more  mystical  basis  of  thought, 
took  a  deeper  hold  of  his  mind. 

As  time  rolls  on,  no  greater  name  than  Michael 
Angelo  yet  appears  in  art.  The  sober  judgment  of 
posterity  confirms  and  strengthens  that  of  his  contem- 
poraries, whether  he  be  viewed  as  sculptor,  painter 
or  architect — a  supreme  genius,  humanly  speaking. 
This  would  not  be  his  own  estimate  of  himself,  al- 
though that  was  high,  because  none  knew  better 
than  he  the  limitations  of  human  effort  to  control  and 
shape  matter.  But  the  combined  grasp,  sweep  and 
depth  of  his  imagination  lifted  him  to  the  topmost 


pinnacle  of  known  creative  art.  Some  other  artists 
excelled  him  in  the  softer  elements  of  graceful  beauty, 
variety  of  fancy,  and  what  may  be  termed  exquisite 
taste  or  classical  elegance ,  on  the  basis  of  purely 
naturalistic  art.  But  in  his  chosen  field  of  the  supernal, 
that  which  in  invention  transcends  the  natural  and 
aspires  to  an  ideal  of  power  and  meaning  above  and 
beyond  ordinary  human  perception  and  experience, 
Michael  Angelo  stands  alone;  a  solitary  figure  in  art, 
of,  as  yet,  unsurpassed  grandeur,  not  to  be  compre- 
hended by  superficial  thought  or  glance.  Indeed,  a 
first  look  may  repel  because  of  seeming  exaggerations 
of  line  of  muscular  force,  besides  the  difficulty  of  pene- 
trating his  entire  aim.  But,  as  insight  into  his  world 
of  creative  art  dawns  on  the  mind,  it  is  both  humbled 
and  exalted  by  a  genius  altogether  diff"erent  from 
what  we  have  heretofore  accepted  as  the  loftiest 
standards  of  the  world's  art;  humbled  by  our  previous 
igQorance  and  mistakes;  and  exalted  by  a  revelation 
in  another  which  discloses  hitherto  unknown  depths 
in  our  own  capacity  of  appreciation  of  mental  and 
spiritual  forces  latent  in  our  common  humanity. 

Indeed,  to  adequately  understand  Michael  Angelo  is 
equivalent  to  a  liberal  education  in  the  highest  realms 
of  art.  In  making  this  statement  I  include  what  has  been 
frequently  denied  him — a  mastery  of  color,  as  on  the 
ceiling  of  the  Sixtine  Chapel,  which  is  on  a  par  with 
his  supremacy  over  form.  Here  he  shows  himself 
in   each    equally   strong,   forcible    and  harmonious. 


—  28  — 


His  sense  of  beauty  is  guided  and  controlled  by  a 
majesty  of  types  and  a  standard  of  interpretation  of 
humanity  inspired  by  a  spiritual  consciousness  of  its 
infinite  aims  and  immortal  being,  that  surprises  and 
bewilders  the  spectator  before  he  is  prepared  to 
partly  seize  his  meaning  and  enter  into  his  world  of 
thought.  Not  until  he  can  do  this  may  he  say  that 
he  has  seen  Michael  Angelo. 

The  complete  appreciation  of  this  wonderful  artist 
comes  spontaneously  to  but  a  few  gifted  minds;  rarely 
to  anyone  except  in  the  maturity  of  his  faculties,  after 
long  and  patient  study. 

Looking  back  on  my  earliest  impressions  of  him 
and  sundry  criticisms  I  was  rash  enough  then  to  make 
on  his  works,  I  am  startled  at  my  blindness  to  the 
supernal  world  he  invited  me  to  enter.  But  to  con- 
fess ignorance  and  presumption  is  also  to  note  advance 
in  the  right  direction.  Unless  we  are  self-convicted 
from  time  to  time  of  errors  by  the  enlargment  of  our 
horizon  of  knowledge,  we  remain  stationary  in  a  be- 
fogged intellectual  centre,  clinging  to  our  own  petty 
poles  of  mental  conceit  and  spiritual  darkness.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  favorable  indication  when  light  ahead,  how- 
ever dim,  can  be  seen,  towards  to  which  we  are 
prompted  to  grope  our  way.  A  removal  of  the  ideal 
of  life  from  one  point  to  a  higher,  at  whatever  cost 
of  shattered  idols,  reinvigorates  the  soul  and  brigh- 
tens existence.  A  criticism  kindly  made  me  in  a 
letter  on  the  publication  of  my  first  book  on  art  in 


—  29  — 

i856  —  "Art  Hints,"  a  crude  but  sincere  effort — ^by 
Mr.  Ruskin,  was  most  just.  Referring  to  my  remarks 
on  Turner,  he  wrote  me  :  "I  think  you  are  not  so 
much  wrong  as  short-sighted  in  nearly  all  you  say 
about  Turner,''  adding  :  "I  think  you  have  the  true 
feeling  for  art  and  will  be  very  useful  in  the  good 
cause." 

"Short-sighted''  might  have  been  applied  with 
similar  truth  to  many  other  artists,  chiefly  Michael 
Angelo.  As  my  wish  to  learn  was  sincere,  some  pro- 
gress towards  a  more  just  comprehension  of  art  and 
artists  has  possibly  been  made,  however  much  remains 
to  be  done.  My  apology  for  this  personal  allusion  is 
that  it  offers  a  striking  contrast  to  the  experience  I 
am  relating  of  quite  a  different  nature  —  the  expe- 
rience, be  it  remembered,  of  a  boy  of  but  ten  years 
old  when  he  first  began  to  comprehend  and  be  swayed 
by  Michael  Angelo.  A  taste  developing  to  a  passion, 
which  under  the  trying  restrictions  of  incessant  inva- 
lidism, besides  the  freshness  of  extreme  youth,  may  be 
considered  as  phenomenal.  It  was  no  passing,  super- 
ficial emotion,  but  was  intensified  with  his  growth, 
until  it  became  the  keynote  of  his  own  art  life. 
Finally,  it  was  modified  by  a  broader  appreciation 
of  whatever  was  good  in  all  art,  and  was  leading  up 
to  an  original  and  independent  style  of  rich  promise 
when  his  career  was  so  suddenly  and  tragically  closed. 
The  various  steps  and  changes  in  this  development 
of  his  own    individuality,  as  shown  by  his  sketches, 


—  3o  — 


form  an  interesting  psychological  and  artistic  record. 

But  I  am  digressing  too  much  from  the  incident  I 
began  to  relate. 

Pepero  had  been  confined  to  his  bed  for  some 
weeks,  when,  on  becoming  able  to  rise  from  it,  he 
called  aside  his  mother  to  impart  to  her  as  a  great 
secret  his  wish  to  celebrate  the  birthday  of  Michael 
Angelo  in  his  own  room,  in  his  own  fashion,  using 
his  pocket  money  for  the  purpose. 

"Your  own  birthday  comes  four  days  later,  why 
not  celebrate  that?"  she  asked 

"Oh  no!"  he  answered,  "that  is  nothing.  1  am 
nobody.  Michael  Angelo  is  the  greatest  artist  that  ever 
lived,  and  I  want  to  honor  his." 

"You  shall  have  it  all  your  own  way  and  it  shall 
be  kept  as  secret  as  you  wish,"  was  the  reply.  "You 
will,  of  course,  ask  some  of  your  young  friends  to 
come ! " 

"Not  at  all!  They  do  not  understand  or  care 
for  Michael  Angelo.  I  want  only  my  parents,  sisters 
and  Aurelia"  (an  aged  family  servant  to  whom  he  was 
much  attached),  and  some  artists  whom  he  named. 
And  so  he  went  to  work  in  his  own  fashion  to  carry 
out  his  idea. 

When  the  evening  came,  it  was  indeed  a  surprise 
to  see  what  this  feeble  invalid  of  eleven  years,  unaided, 
had  done  in  honor  of  his  revered  master.  The  little 
bedroom  was  transformed  into  a  species  of  chapelle 
ardente,  without    the    paraphernalia   of  death,  and 


—  3i  — 


adorned  with  every  possible  souvenir  of  the  artist  he 
could  get.  Could  that  stern,  solitary  man  have  seen 
the  spectacle,  even  he  would  have  been  moved  by 
the  homage  of  his  juvenile  admirer. 

Evergreens  were  tastefully  hung  about  the  room, 
interspersed  with  festoons  of  variously  tinted  Japanese 
lanterns  which  shed  a  mysterious,  aesthetic  light 
over  the  scene.  On  a  sort  of  altar,  at  one  side,  there 
was  placed  a  plaster  bust  of  Michael  Angelo.  Suspended 
by  a  fine  wire,  invisible  in  the  subdued  colored  lights, 
there  poised  two  colored  amorini  or  boy  angels  about 
to  crown  the  bust  with  a  laurel  wreath.  These 
were  drawn,  painted  and  cut  out  of  pasteboard  by 
Pepero  himself.  Behind  them  there  were  photographs 
of  the  "Last  Judgment,"  of  the  Sixtine  Chapel  and  other 
works  of  Buonorotti.  In  front  there  was  a  large  plum- 
cake  into  which  were  placed  eleven  lighted  wax 
candles  of  different  colors,  giving  the  whole  the  look 
of  a  church  altar.  He  questioned  the  propriety  of 
this  and  did  not  wish  to  admit  it,  but  consented  at 
the  urging  of  his  sisters,  who  insisted  on  doing  some- 
thing for  his  birthday  as  well  as  Michael  Angelo's. 

The  delicate  lad,  with  his  thin,  pale  face  and 
slight  figure,  quivering  with  emotion,  was  seated  on 
a  high  stool,  welcoming  his  guests  and  expatiating 
on  his  hero,  ending  with  what  was  intended  for  a 
cheer,  in  which  all  sympathetically  joined,  greatly 
touched  by  the  scene. 

Enjoyable,  suggestive,  almost  weird,  it  truly  was; 


hut  saddened  by  the  then  dawning  fear  that  the  author 
of  the  fete  might  not  see  another.  Yet  he  was  spared 
to  renew  it  again  on  the  next  anniversary  of  Michael 
Angelos  birth,  with  greater  decoration  and  more 
guests,  several  of  whom  were  eminent  Italian  artists 
who  were  moved  and  astonished  at  such  a  tribute  to 
Italy's  greatest  art-son  from  the  little,  wan  American 
boy,  whose  life  was  trembling  in  the  depth  of  his 
emotions.  With  them  came  Charles  Heath  Wilson, 
an  English  artist  and  author  of  latest  life  of  Michael 
Angelo.  As  he  turned  to  leave,  he  said  to  Pepero  : 
"The  spirit  of  Michael  Angelo  is  looking  down  on  you 
and  appreciates  what  you  are  doing  in  his  honor.  He 
will  be  the  first  of  kindred  spirits  to  welcome  you 
above."' 

Pepero  survived  Mr.  Wilson  two  years.  But  he 
never  was  able  to  repeat  again  the  celebration,  being 
prevented  by  increasing  invalidism  and  absence  from 
his  home  in  search  of  the  unattainable  strength  he  so 
coveted  that  he,  too,  might  be  an  artist._  This  longing 
was  always  in  his  thoughts.  Life  had  no  other  value 
to  him.  To  possess  a  studio  and  be  able  to  work  was 
his  dream  of  earthly  bliss.  He  looked  forward  to 
this  almost  to  the  last,  never  wholly  despairing,  al- 
though sadly  eager  to  obtain  his  wish.  He  would 
say  :  "I  had  rather  be  a  poor  boy,  sleeping  on  a  door- 
step and  eating  a  crust  of  bread,  and  possess  a  studio 
than  anything  else."  His  romance  of  happiness  was 
to  shut  himself  in  one  from  morning  to  evening  and 


—  33  — 


be  free  to  work  as  he  pleased,  unhindered  and  unob- 
served. But  to  labor  in  art  for  mere  money  or  praise 
was  a  repugnant  thought.  For  artists  of  this  stamp 
he  had  no  respect.  Neither  would  he  consent  to 
show  anything  he  did  to  those  who  did  not  regard  art 
as  a  serious  and  almost  divine  thing  :  to  real  judges,  he 
would  quietly  say,  it  w^as  not  worthy  of  their  notice. 

When  twelve  years  old  he  drew  in  crayons  on  a 
large  cartoon  a  figure  of  an  archangel  of  surprising 
vigor  of  pose  and  beauty  of  form,  floating  in  the  air 
with  outspread  wings,  showering  good  gifts  upon  the 
earth.  It  was  a  very  original  and  suggestive  idea. 
An  Italian  artist  of  much  repute,  to  whom  the  boy 
reluctantly  assented  to  its  being  shown,  praised  it  most 
enthusiastically,  scarcely  believing  his  eyes,  and  re- 
marked :  ''Not  one  of  us  could  have  done  it." 

A  few  days  later,  the  fact  of  this  drawing  having 
got  about,  an  eminent  figure  painter  of  the  Floren- 
tine school  begged  to  see  it.  He  was  equally  sur- 
prised at  the  free  conception  and  execution,  but  being 
very  academic  in  his  own  style,  he  suggested  to 
Pepero  a  little  change  in  the  outline  of  the  legs. 
Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  caught  up  a  crayon, 
and  changed  them  into  what  Ruskin  calls  the  kicking 
grace  of  Moses  and  Elias  in  Raphael's  Transfiguration. 
Pepero's  countenance  showed  that  he  did  not  approve 
the  alteration,  but  he  said  nothing  and  restrained  his 
feelings.  No  sooner  had  the  artist  left,  then  he  burst 
into  tears — the  only  time  I  ever  knew  him  to  shed 


-  34- 

a  tear — and  exclaimed  with  bitter  sorrow  :  " — ■ — has 
spoiled  my  work;  he  does  not  see  my  idea  at  all,"'  and 
soon  after  destroyed  the  cartoon.  It  had  lost  all 
value  to  him.  The  change  had  weakened  the  strength 
of  the  action  and  expression.  This  was  evident  enough 
to  a  critical  eye,  but  we  deplored  its  loss,  for  it  was 
a  remarkable  composition  in  every  light. 

In  justice  to  him  I  ought  to  add  that  were  he 
living,  he  w^ould  not  consent  to  the  publication  of  any 
of  his  studies  or  sketches,  for  he  regarded  all  alike, 
as  crude,  imperfect  work,  tentative  and  experimentive; 
indeed,  they  are  to  be  viewed  only  as  an  untrained 
boy's  efforts,  feeling  his  way  amid  uncommon  diffi- 
culties to  the  career  of  an  artist.  But  they  help  to  con- 
firm my  often  expressed  opinion  that  sooner  or  later 
there  will  spring  up  an  American  school  of  art,  of  a 
national  character,  as  vigorous  and  original  as  any  of 
other  lands  in  the  past  centuries.  For  doubtless  there 
are  many  others  of  our  youths  quietly  striving  to  this 
end  and  biding  their  opportunities. 

During  the  wearisome  seven  years  of  his  invalidism 
he  never  showed  impatience  or  uttered  a  complaint. 
Persevering,  quiet,  cheerful,  with  a  rare  feeling  for 
humor  and  fun,  his  intellect  steadily  grew  brighter 
and  more  profound  as  his  body  weakened.  Once  he 
remarked  :  "I  am  so  decayed;  like  a  spoilt  egg,''  as  if 
apologising  to  himself  for  not  doing  more,  adding  that 
he  wished  no  more  visits  from  physicians.  "They  do  not 
know  how  we  feel  inside"  —  telling  one  of  his  sisters 


"I  have  no  fear  of  death;  I  shall  be  the- first  to  go." 

However,  it  was  seldom  that  he  alluded  to  these 
topics,  for  his  extreme  reticence  in  all  that  regarded 
himself  was  a  characteristic  trait.  Art  \s^as  ever  the 
welcome  theme  and  the  discussion  of  whatever  related 
to  it. 

His  chief  ambition  was  to  do  large  work  both  in 
painting  and  sculpture  like  the  old  masters.  He  tried 
wood  carving  and  wished  to  etch.  This  could  not  be 
permitted  lest  the  acids  and  the  nature  of  the  work 
should  aggravate  his  cough.  At  his  very  urgent  soli- 
citation some  clay  was  provided  that  he  might  model, 
as  an  experiment. 

He  began  a  statuette  of  a  wounded,  dying  youth, 
lying  on  his  back,  his  knees  partly  drawn  up  and  his 
hands  and  arms  thrown  backwards,  with  the  head 
falling  between  them  in  the  act  of  expiring.  There  was 
something  both  of  the  Adonis  of  TVlichael  Angelo  and 
the  Cain  of  Dupre  in  the  attitude,  but  the  feeling  and 
characterisation,  with  the  treatment  of  details,  were 
quite  his  own.  Pepero  intended  it  as  a  gift  to  me  on 
my  return  from  America,  where  I  then  was.  Having 
completed  it  in  clay  it  was  cut  in  marble  by  an  ex- 
perienced workman;  but  the  marble  fails  to  give  the 
best  points  of  expression  and  the  anatomy  of  the  ori- 
ginal cast.  The  collapse  of  the  frame,  fainting,  dying 
languor  and  general  sentiment  are  pathetically  beau- 
tiful. As  the  first  production  of  so  young  an  artist 
it  surprised  all  who  saw^  it.    But  the  sight  of  it,  gra- 


—  36  — 


tified  as  I  was  by  the  talent  shown,  and  tribute  ot 
love  to  me,  fell  heavily  on  my  heart  like  an  uncon- 
scious prophecy  of  his  own  early  doom;  a  knell  from 
a  gaping  tomb  to  the  sound  of  which  I  vainly  strove  to 
close  my  ears.  Yet  I  think,  he  chose  the  motif  for 
the  opportunity  it  presented  of  overcoming  anatomical 
difficulties  and  embodying  a  sentiment  of  classical 
origin,  at  which  the  greatest  artists  had  tried  their 
hands. 

He  was  proud  to  have  made  this  beginning  in 
sculpture,  but  insisted  on  keeping  it  out  of  sight, 
hidden  away  in  his  room,  under  lock  and  key,  which 
he  would  intrust  to  no  one.  Some  visitors  who  had 
heard  it  spoken  of  desired  very  much  to  see  it.  With 
some  difficulty  it  was  obtained  and  shown.  They 
exclamed  :  "How  wonderful,  how  beautiful!  How  could 
he  have  done  it  all  alone?"  When  told,  he  rejoined  : 
"1  do  not  care  what  persons  say;  I  know  myself  it 
is  not  good." 

Reading  that  Hawthorne,  when  he  wished  to 
write,  shut  himself  up  in  a  tower  in  his  house,  put- 
ting his  chair  on  the  trap-door  by  which  only  it 
could  be  entered,  he  observed:  "He  did  right;  no  one 
can  do  anything  with  people  coming  in  to  disturb 
them;  one  must  be  alone." 

Commenting  on  the  practice  of  those  sculptors 
who  fit  up  show-studies  connected  with  their  houses, 
so  that  all  callers  may  be  easily  allured  into  them 
by  their  decorative  display,  he  exclaimed  :  "I  wish  one 


^  37  - 

into  which  nobody  from  morning  to  night  can  enter, 
except  a  boy  to  bring  my  food."  His  time  passed 
only  too  quickly  wh'en  left  entirely  alone  occupied  by 
his-  work. 

In  his  frail  condition  of  body  it  was  pitiable  to 
witness  his  silent,  deep-felt  longing  for  a  studio  like 
other  artists.  He  was  too  proud  and  considerate  of 
us  to  give  pain  by  useless  utterances,  but  we  could 
see  what  was  gnawing  at  his  soul.  Especially  he 
craved  the  free  use  of  clay  that  he  might  attempt 
some  large  composition.  Also,  he  wished  "wings" 
to  go  where  and  see  what  he  pleased.  To  appease  a 
longing  so  intense  that  it  began  to  consume  his 
scanty  stock  of  vitality  we  obtained  for  him  an  artificial, 
flexible  substance  made  in  Parma  for  modelling,  as  a 
substitute  for  clay,  being  less  damp  and  more  easily 
worked.  With  it  he  began  at  once  an  alto-relief  of 
more  than  twelve  figures,  about  eleven  feet  by  five, 
representing  the  Death  of  Priam,  a  subject  which  has 
been  treated  by  more  than  one  eminent  artist  of  classi- 
cal proclivities.  The  very  nature  of  the  topic  would 
imply  a  certain  similarity  of  composition.  In  this 
instance  Pyrrhus  was  shown  with  uplifted  sword  and 
powerful  grasp  dragging  the  unresisting,  aged  Priam 
by  the  hair  to  the  altar  on  which  he  was  to  be  im- 
molated by  his  unrelenting  foe.  These  two  figures 
formed  the  central  group.  On  the  right  Hecuba  was 
fainting,  amid  an  aflFrighted  crowd  of  her  maidens, 
half  clinging  to    and   half    sustaining   their  sinking 


queen,  all  aghast  at  the  horrors  of  the  sack  of  Troy 
and  slaughter  of  its  people.  Behind  this  admirably 
posed  group,  in  flat  relief,  spectrelike,  was  seen  the 
tall  form  of  a  withered  crone,  like  a  Hecate  or  Fate, 
one  long  arm  circling  the  victims  and  the  other  out- 
stretched, with  a  powerful,  menacing  gesture  threa- 
tening the  son  of  Achilles  as,  with  gleaming  eyes  and 
expanded  mouth,  she  devoted  him  to  the  avenging 
deities. 

This  phantom  form,  strongly  modelled,  was  the 
keynote  of  horror  of  the  spectacle,  which  was  imbued 
with  the  very  spirit  of  ^schylus  as  a  whole.  The 
contrast  between  the  young  and  handsome  Greek 
warrior  and  the  trembling  old  man,  the  graceful 
maidens  and  the  hopeless,  aged  queen,  the  cursing  hag, 
the  varied  emotions  and  actions  of  all  effectively  and 
harmoniously  combined  into  an  artistic  whole,  on 
this  side,  was  well  balanced  on  the  other  by  a  com- 
panion group  of  young  people  of  both  sexes,  overcome 
by  terror,  powerless  to  tly,  in  various  attitudes  of 
despair,  seeking  to  shield  themselves  and  their  sight 
from  their  own  fast  approaching  doom,  yet  more 
appalled  at  the  sacrilegious  death  of  their  venerated 
chief  than  at  their  own  fate. 

Action  and  drapery  throughout  were  treated  in 
accordance  with  the  rules  of  the  best  classical  art. 
The  composition,  even  in  an  unfinished  state,  elicited 
warm  encomiums  from  the  few  artists  and  individuals 
who  were  permitted  to  see  it  unknown  to  the  boy. 


-  39  - 

Before  its  completion  he  was  obliged  to  go  into  the 
country  to  escape  the  great  heat  of  Florence.  This 
was  in  1884.  He  had  modelled  them  directly 
from  his  head,  without  the  help  of  a  cartoon  or  draw- 
ing to  assist  him  in  the  details  of  costumes, 
architecture,  etc.,  frequently  changing  and  correcting 
as  he  went  on  ;  for  his  memory  of  things  once  seen 
in  his  studies  was  astonishing.  Everything  seemed 
to  be  stored  away  in  his  brain,  ready  at  call  to  be 
turned  to  special  account.  On  his  return  from  the 
country  in  the  autumn  he  had  decided  to  make  some 
radical  changes  in  the  central  group. 

The  Hecuba  part  of  the  composition  was  so  com- 
plete and  fine  that  I  feared  to  have  him  change  it, 
lest  some  of  its  beauty  be  lost,  wishing  to  have  it 
photographed  in  order  to  preserve  some  idea  of  it  in 
case  the  whole  was  never  finished.  But  I  was  de- 
tained at  our  villa  a  few  days  after  Pepero  had  gone 
back  to  Florence  in  October.  When  I  returned  I 
went  at  once  to  his  room,  only  to  find  him  standing 
over  the  debris  of  the  relief,  more  pleased  than  regret- 
ful. He  told  me  the  heat  had  so  cracked  it  and  the 
material  had  grown  so  hard  that  he  could  not  to  go 
on  with  it,  and  so  he  threw  it  all  down,  intending  to 
begin  it  anew  and  modify  it  considerably.  But  the 
time  for  it  never  came,  as  we  soon  left  Florence  on 
his  account  for  the  softer  air  of  Rome;  and  indeed,  his 
strength  was  inadequate  to  model  longer  in  any  sub- 
stance whatever. 


—  40  — 

Many  flattering  opinions  from  competent  judges 
had  been  expressed  regarding  this  relief,  but  none 
made  him  regret  its  loss,  for  he  was  so  conscious  of 
being  able  to  do  even  better.  "People  talk,''  he 
would  say,  "  just  for  the  sake  of  talking.  How  can 
any  one  criticise  statuary  when  they  known  nothing 
of  anatomy?  When  people  known  nothing  about 
what  they  admire,  why  care  for  their  criticisms.?" 

Such  was  the  constant  tenor  of  his  remarks,  whether 
referring  to  painting,  drawing  or  modelling,  whenever 
asked  to  show  his  work.  These  ideas  are  not  uncom- 
mon with  adult  artists  of  established  fame,  but  scarcely 
to  be  expected  of  a  youth  in  the  first  flush  of  trying 
his  unfledged  powers.  He  was  invariably  his  own 
most  severe  critic.  Before  attempting  the  Death  of 
Priam,  he  had  made  anatomical  studies  in  plaster  of 
such  correctness  as  to  cause  one  of  Italy's  most 
renov/ned  sculptors  to  say  that  they  were  so  true  to 
life  he  could  suggest  no  changes. 

But  previous  to  plastic  work  he  had  tried  to  paint, 
in  oil,  heads  and  original  ideal  compositions.  Not 
being  able  to  visit  studios  or  take  any  regular  lessons 
in  the  manipulation  of  colors,  his  sole  resource  was 
to  feel  his  way  step  by  step  towards  those  results 
which  are  usually  taught  as  the  first  lessons  of  begin- 
ners. Before  he  was  thirteen  he  had  made  what 
was  considered  by  others  promising  progress  in  this 
way  :  Dissatisfied  with  himself  that  he  had  not  attained 
to  something  approaching  to  the  magical  flesh-tints  of 


—  41  ~ 

Titian  or  Correggio — for  nothing  less  would  content 
him—  he  destroyed  all  his  studies  in  oil,  postponing 
practice  in  it  to  a  later  period. 

Early  in  his  fifteenth  year  Pepero  virtually  gave 
up  all  art-vs'^ork  except  anatomical  drawing  and  occa- 
sional practice  in  pen  and  ink  or  pencil,  such  as 
might  be  suggested  by  his  regular  studies.  All  that 
had  been  done  until  now  he  said  was  "mere  play." 
It  was  time  to  begin  to  study  seriously  and  systema- 
tically with  the  aim  of  preparing  a  solid  foundation 
for  his  art.  Instead  of  longer  imitating  the  example 
of  Michael  Arigelo  in  his  boyish  opposition  to  book- 
learning  he  asked  for  a  tutor,  not  merely  to  study 
geometry,  mathematics,  scientific  perspective  and  those 
branches  of  learning  requisite  to  form  a  complete 
armory  of  instruction  for  a  true  artist,  but  also  to 
carry  out  an  university  course  of  history,  poetry,  philo- 
sophy and  general  literature,  supplemented  by  Greek 
and  Latin.  An  accomplished  tutor  was  found,  admir- 
ably qualified  by  learning  and  disposition  for  his 
needs.  He  adopted  his  methods  with  great  good 
judgment  to  the  physical  condition  of  his  pupil, 
making  it  chiefly  oral,  with  frequent  intervals  of 
repose  and  such  exercise  as  he  could  bear. 

It  may  be  asked,  why  was  he  allowed  to  study  at 
all?  Simply  because  study  was  his  life.  Without 
constant  employment  of  his  mind  he  would  have  been 
too  wretched  to  live.  His  physician  and  tutor  on  their 
part  so  regulated  his  studies  as  to   spare  his  body 


and  not  to  fatigue  his  mind  as  much  as  it  was  pos- 
sible to  do  in  his  precarious  state  of  health.  Both 
entertained  the  theory  that  when  he  had  passed  the 
critical  period  of  youth  he  might  grow  to  manhood 
with  at  least  a  moderate  degree  of  strength— a  wel- 
come but  delusive  idea.  Still,  short  as  was  his  life, 
I  am  convinced  that  his  studies  did  prolong  it.  He 
was  so  happy  in  them,  so  obedient  to  every  rule,  so 
free  from  any  special  suffering,  ate  and  slept  so  regu- 
lary  well,  manifesting  none  of  the  worst  symptoms 
of  consumption,  that  hope  never  altogether  forsook  us. 
To  the  last,  his  face  was  singularly  free  from  the 
distinctive  tokens  of  his  disease.  Strangers  could  not 
credit  how  serious  it  had  become. 

The  winter  of  1 883- 1884  was  passed  on  the 
Riviera  at  Monte  Carlo  and  Mentone,  by  the  advice 
of  the  physicians  of  Florence.  Away  from  his  passion- 
ately loved  city  and  its  associations  he  was  unhappy 
and  always  pining  to  return.  He  endured  the  exile 
patiently,  hoping  for  the  best,  but  complained  that  he 
could  not  study  and  was  disinclined  even  to  work 
except  on  some  colored  anatomical  drawings  which 
were  highly  and  beautifully  finished.  When  urged  to 
divert  himself  with  original  designs,  he  would  reply 
as  an  excuse  for  himself,  "You  know  Canova  could 
not  work  out  ot  the  atmosphere  of  Rome.'' 

After  his  return  to  Florence  in  April,  1884,  he 
never  could  endure  any  allusion  to  either  place,  so 
painful  had  become  the  memories  of  lost  time.  For 


-  43  - 

him  their  picturesqueness  had  no  charm.  Indeed, 
nowhere  was  he  attracted  by  the  merely  beautiful 
in  the  landscape;  not  even  the  olive-clad  environs  of 
Florence  flanked  by  the  billowy  Apennines  with 
their  villa  and  castle  crowned  heights  did  he  espe- 
cially care  for.  When  he  saw  a  few  months  later 
for  the  first  time  the  Roman  Gampagna  a  cry  of  joy 
escaped  his  lips,  as  he  took  in  its  silent  grandeur  of 
desolation  and  sweep  of  savage  plain  disappearing 
in  the  purple  shadows  of  the  vapory  mountains.  All 
this  appealed  sympathetically  to  his  imagination. 
The  ocean,  too,  and  whatever  was  broad  and  grand  in 
feature  and  sentiment  gave  him  joy,  but  to  the  merely 
pretty  in  nature  or  art  he  gave  no  attention. 

During  the  summer  of  1884  at  Fiesole  he  began 
a  course  of  architectural  studies,  particularly  classical, 
with  a  degree  of  interest  and  comprehension  that 
convinced  me  he  wished  in  the  future  to  make  archi- 
tecture his  chief  aim,  and  sculpture  and  painting  subor- 
dinate to  it.  With  the  exception  of  a  portrait  bust 
in  prepared  creta  which  was  begun  but  soon  relin- 
guished  as  too  fatiguing,  he  occupied  himself  solely 
with  those  studies  which  would  give  him  that  scientific 
basis  of  art  he  held  to  be  necessary  before  he  could 
call  himself  an  artist.  His  facility  of  drawing  and 
invention  never  induced  him  to  give  up  any  of  the 
time  allotted  to  the  severer  studies  for  the  pleasure 
of  indulging  his  fancy  and  skill  of  hand  in  work  not 
called  for  by  them.    Drawing  was  as  facile  to  him  as 


—  44 

playing  by  ear  is  to  many  in  music,  but  it  could  not 
seduce  him  to  depart  from  any  rule  of  self-control 
he  had  laid  down  for  himself.  The  difficult,  and  not 
the  easy,  was  his  aim.  It  is  true  that  the  sheets  in 
which  he  worked  out  mathematical  problems  were 
covered  with  pen  and  ink  caricatures  or  sketches 
of  muscular  action,  as  a  momentary  play  for  his 
fingers.  All,  however,  had  some  relation  to  the 
study  before  him.  After  his  death,  there  were  found 
no  original  designs  like  those  of  his  second  period,  or 
copies  like  those  of  his  first,  from  the  drawings  of 
the  old  masters.  The  only  exception,  if  they  may 
be  considered  such,  were  a  few  studies  of  his  own 
head  in  different  attitudes,  one  of  which  was  signed 
and  dated  and  more  finished  than  the  others.  All 
were  done  unknown  to  any  of  the  family.  Possibly, 
they  were  hastily  thrown  off  in  spare  moments  as  ex- 
periments. But  to  me  they  now  seem  most  precious, 
although  perhaps  unconscious,  tokens  on  his  part  of 
a  speedy  farewell.  If  any  presentiment  of  this  nature 
cast  its  shadow  on  his  mind  he  kept  it  scrupulously 
to  himself,  otherwise  than  in  secretly  embodying  it 
in  the  shape  of  these  touching  souvenirs  of  himself 
and  his  beloved  art — a  revolution  of  his  inmost  spirit 
in  lineaments  of  extreme  delicacy,  with  his  dark, 
earnest  eyes  gazing  into  futurity  out  of  the  soul's 
prison  of  flesh. 

Among  the  notes  of  his  study  I  found  one  in  Italian 
showing  the  importance  he   attached  to  an  artist's 


thoroughly  acquiring  the  grammar  of  the  profession 
before  appearing  to  the  public.  He  was  no  believer 
in  the  not  uncommon  practice  of  acquiring  a  knowledge 
of  it  at  the  expense  of  others  by  the  sale  of  crude  work, 
or  what  we  might  appropriately  call  the  studio  chips 
of  an  untrained  hand,  however  promising.  His 
maxim  was  the  best  or  nothing.  He  writes:  "To  aid 
the  progress  of  art  is  the  chief  scope  of  every  kind 
of  knowledge;  without  it  art  would  be  only  sterile 
vanity.  Not  a  small  part  of  its  merit  is  due  to  the 
study  of  external  anatomy,  provided  it  does  not  bur- 
den the  memory  with  a  multiplicity  of  empty  words 
foreign  to  an  artist's  speech — words  intended  by 
writers  to  indicate  the  muscles,  etc.  It  is  of  much 
greater  utility  to  know  their  derivations  and  progress 
to  their  final  termination,  the  uses  of  the  same  and 
their  relations  to  each  other." 

The  paragraph  is  unfinished,  but,  although  a  little 
vague  in  form,  the  meaning  is  clear.  Whether  borrowed 
or  not  in  idea  from  some  book  it  conscientiously  de- 
fines the  guiding  principle  of  his  own  anatomical  studies, 
which,  beginning  with  the  bony  structure,  proceeded 
in  order  with  the  muscles,  blood-vessels,  nerves  and 
skin,  from  the  best  medical  books,  until  he  was  able 
to  reconstruct  the  perfect  body  in  its  infinite  variety 
of  movement.  This  practice  was  supplemented  by 
closely  observing  human  and  animal  forms  and  action 
until  he  acquired  a  knowledge  of  them  not  always  to 
be  seen  in  the  works  of  adult  artists  of  established 


—  46  - 

reputation.  It  was  a  sad  sight  to  sec  him  frequently- 
examining  his  own  attenuated  limbs  to  demonstrate 
the  attachments  and  action  of  his  shrunken  muscles 
and  to  hear  the  admiration  he  expressed  in  seeing 
beauty  and  perfect  development  in  others.  He  was 
unconsciously  studying  more  for  another  life  than  for 
this;  for  there  was  to  my  mind  a  sacred  awe  in  these 
investigations.  It  was  only  too  evident  they  were 
not  destined  to  bear  fruit  in  this  world.  After  viewing 
Canova's  w^orks  in  Rome  he  admired  him  more  than 
any  other  modern  sculptor,  particularly  his  profound 
knowledge  of  anatomy.  He  was  enthusiastic  over  the 
feet  and  hands  of  his  statue  of  Pauline  Bonaparte  in 
the  Borghese  Villa.  Conscious  of  his  own  power  of 
invention,  he  had  become  most  solicitous  to  master 
orm  and  action,  believing  that  the  imagination,  how- 
ever fertile  in  creative  thought,  would  only  limp, 
not  walk  serenely,  without  this  accomplishment. 

I  will  give  a  few  extracts  from  a  letter  in  Italian 
written  me  by  his  tutor  after  his  death.  They  will 
serve  better  than  my  words  to  illustrate  his  general 
intellectual  character  and  capacity. 

Mr.  Taccini  writes:  "The  first  moment  I  saw  Pepero 
I  felt  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  boy  the  like  of 
whom  I  had  not  met  in  my  twenty  three  years'  ex- 
perience as  scholar  and  teacher.  We  were  both  mute 
at  first,  regarding  each  other  interrogatively.  But 
when  I  began  to  speak  of  art  and  the  great  artists, 
his  eyes  shone  with  animation.    1  had  touched  his 


weak  point.  For  Michael  Angelo  he  had  the  pro- 
foundest  admiration,  telling  me  that  not  merely  in 
Italy  but  in  the  entire  world  there  was  no  greater 
man.  When  he  spoke  I  listened  with  great  attention, 
because  I  found  his  judgment  was  invariably  true 
and  just  and  without  presumption.  His  genius,  for 
he  had  true  genius,  had  no  other  need  of  encourage- 
ment than  his  own  conscience,  which  said  to  him, 
'You  can  do  this;  do  it.'  This  burning  desire 
devoured  him  to  his  very  last  evening,  as  I,  more 
than  anyone,  can  affirm,  knowing  the  sublime  aspi- 
rations of  his  great  soul. 

"Dante  had  always  been  my  passion,  and  I  had 
studied  him  for  several  years.  Yet,  each  time  I  re- 
read him,  I  confess  I  found  difficulties  in  regard  to 
his  real  meaning  that  stranded  me.  But  for  Pepero 
there  were  no  difficulties.  In  his  thirteenth  year  we 
had  gone  over  together  and  commented  on  the  'Divine 
Commedia,'  and  I  never  had  to  repeat  twice  the  same 
thing,  nor  did  he  have  to  exert  his  mind  in  the  sligh- 
test degree  to  comprehend  him.  It  is  noteworthy  that 
after  more  than  a  years  interval  without  having 
taken  up  Dante,  when  something  recalled  him,  Pepero 
commented  on  him  with  such  precision,  repeating 
my  own  words  of  two  years  before,  that  I  remained 
stupefied.  He  then  cited  the  comments  of  others,  quot- 
ing the  anonymous  Roman  and  Venturi  which  I  had 
at  that  time  incidentally  repeated  as  absurd  and  had 
quite  forgotten  the  fact.    His  memory  was  prodigious, 


-  48  - 

and  his  enthusiasm  for  the  immortal  poet  as  singular 
as  rare.  I  remember  to  have  see  him  almost  beside 
himself  during  lessons  which  lasted  nearly  an  hour. 
'  It  is  impossible  that  Dante  should  not  please,  '  he 
would  say.  To  this  I  replied:  'There  are  many  who  do 
not  like  him  because  they  do  not  understand  him.' 
His  precise  words  in  reply  were  :  "It  is  because 
they  confound  or  jumble  the  political  and  the  theolo- 
gical meaning,  without  paying  attention  to  the  beau- 
tiful pictures  fbei  quadrij  of  the  'Divine  Commedia.' 

"In  his  heart  I  think  Dante  had  now  taken  a  little 
of  the  place  of  Michael  Angelo. 

"Whilst  pursuing  Dante  he  had  also  made  a  com- 
plete course  of  Italian  literature,  grammar  and  rhe- 
toric. A  course  of  study  which  for  anyone  else 
would  have  occupied  from  four  to  five  long  years  he 
had  accomplished  without  effort  in  a  year  and  a  half 
with  very  little  daily  work,  enriching  his  memory 
with  whatever  historical,  astronomical,  mythological, 
philosophical  and  theological  details  and  allusions  that 
are  to  be  found  in  the  poems  of  Dante  in  particular. 

"After  Dante  we  began  the  study  of  other  authors, 
but  they  failed  to  give  him  equal  satisfaction.* 

I.  As  an  illustration  of  Pepero's  choice  for  reading,  independent  of  his 
regular  studies,  I  give  the  following  list  of  books  he  bought  for  his  own  use 
during  the  writer  of  1884-1885  at  Rome  : 

Goldoni's  Comedies,  Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered,  Ariosto's  Orlando 
Fiirioso,  Ugo  Foscolo's  Poems  and  Tragedies,  Alfieri's  Works,  Homer's  Illiad 
and  Odyssey,  Dialogues  of  Galileo  on  the  Systems  of  Ptolomy  and  Coperni- 
cus, Costa's  Elocution,  Vignola's  Architecture,  Uguaccioni's  External  Ana- 
tomy, Gamba's  Anatomy  and  Physiology  Applied  to  Fine  Arts,  Barozzi's 


"It  was  the  same  in  art.  Few  things  escaped  his 
severe  rules  of  criticism,  formed  on  his  own  pro- 
foundly studied  secrets  of  art,  in  all  the  works  of 
Michael  Angelo.  He  and  Dante  bear  the  closest  rela- 
tionship. Pepero  said  their  genius  was  equally  im- 
mense and  akin.  One  day  he  said  to  me,  enjoining 
secresy,  4  have  need  to  learn  how  to  make  verses.  I 
shall  divert  myself  as  well  as  1  can  in  writing  poetry.' 

"It  was  phenomenally  singular  that  whilst  he  took 
so  strongly  to  literary  artistic  studies,  he  was  no  less 
drawn  to  positive  science.  For  himself  both  were  equally 
to  his  taste  and  desire.  Michael  Angelo  having  been  at 
once  painter,  sculptor  and  architect,  Pepero  was  in- 
spired by  a  like  ambition.  'But,'  said  he,  'to  become 
an  architect  it  is  necessary  to  understand  mathematics. 
I  cannot  go  on  without  them.'  Fortunately,  I  had 
made  them  a  special  study,  so  that  with  some  effort, 
I  began  again  with  him,  seeking  to  fatigue  him  as 
little  as  possible.  After  a  few  lessons  we  came  to 
the  famous  problem  of  Pythagoras,  one  of  the  snares 
of  students,  the  Ass's  Bridge.  Studying  only  a  half  hour 
daily  he  had  made  such  progress  that  this  was  quickly 
solved  by  him.  I  remarked  :  'Pepero^  I  have  given 
lessons  in  pure  mathematics,  geometry,  etc.,  but  to 
•have  reached  the  point  you  have  arrived  at  in  so  few 

Practical  Perspective,  Boidi's  Manual  of  Architectural  Design,  Vannini's  Civil 
Architecture  and  Life  of  B.  Cellini,  all  in  Italian — a  selection  of  books  made 
and  purchased  without  consultation,  or  knowledge  even,  of  any  of  the 
family;  tor  it  was  his  habit  to  keep  all  his  little  possessions  out  of  sight  under 
lock  and  key. 


—  ou  — 


days,  with  other  pupils  it  has  taken  never  less  than 
eight  or  nine  months,  and  it  is  a  great  marvel  to  me 
how  you  can  understand  it  so  well  and  so  quickly.' 
'Oh!'  he  answered  with  great  simplicity,  'I  do  not  find 
any  difficulty  in  it/  It  was  true;  there  was  no  diffi- 
culty for  him  to  learn  anything  he  wished." 

Oct.  20th,  1884,  we  moved  from  Florence  to  Rome 
for  the  winter,  persuaded  that  its  climate  was  more 
favorable  to  our  invalid.  There  had  been  no  specially 
alarming  symptoms  indicating  any  speedy  change  for 
the  worse.  His  studies  were  punctually  followed ;  he 
was  able  to  go  out  daily,  and  he  looked  forward  to 
seeing  Rome  with  intense  interest.  I  was  detained 
myself  in  Florence  a  few  days  longer.  His  elder 
sister  wrote  me  his  first  impressions,  which  I  give  : — 

"Pepero  acts  as  if  the  place  were  going  to  suit 
him.  He  is  so  enthusiastic  that  he  cannot  imagine 
how  any  artist  could  live  in  Florence  when  he  could 
live  in  Rome.  He  thinks  everything  is  perfect — could 
not  be  finer — and  he  does  not  care  to  see  any  other 
place  in  the  world,  now  that  he  has  seen  Rome.  It 
is  very  affecting  to  see  this  small  and  delicate  looking 
boy  stand  before  the  great  master's  works  and  look  in 
ecstacy  upon  them,  with  perfect  pleasure  burning  in 
his  face.  He  is  such  a  contrast  to  St.  Peter's  that 
I  could  not  help  contrasting  the  creation  of  a  work 
that  so  small  an  individual  as  man  can  accomplish 
only  by  his  brain.  Pepero  seems  to  be  in  his  element 
here,  breathing  the  air  that  the  old  masters  he  vene- 


—  5i  — 


rates  breathed,  and  he  exclaims  :  'Michael  Angelo  was 
here,  he  saw  this  and  that,'  etc.;  and  is  enchanted  with 
the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  and  its  proportions.  I  take  him 
about,  and,  though  he  does  not  talk  much,  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  show  things  to  such  an  admirer.  Yester- 
day we  were  a  long  time  in  the  Forum,  and  he  said 
he  seemed  to  see  C^sar  and  Cicero;  exclaiming,  'Those 
are  the  stones  on  which  they  trod,'  etc.  He  added  it 
would  be  perfect  happiness  if  he  could  take  the  pre- 
mier prix  at  the  Salon  of  Paris  and  then  be  sent  here 
to  the  French  Academy  of  the  Villa  Medici." 

The  absolute  enjoyment  of  his  few  weeks  in  Rome, 
and  his  full  appreciation  of  all  he  saw,  are  a  consol- 
ing souvenir  that  words  may  not  express.  It  was  a 
fiting  conclusion  to  his  brief  earth-life,  as  the  end 
prepared  for  him  by  the  Divine  purpose  drew  nigh. 
Amid  his  new-found  enjoyments  he  never  trespassed 
one  minute  on  the  hours  of  his  regular  studies.  I 
took  him  to  the  Vatican  to  see  masterpieces  so  well 
known  to  him  by  photographs.  They  were  as  familiar 
in  every  detail  as  if  he  had  passed  his  life  in  their 
midst.  Not  a  glance  was  given  to  secondary  objects, 
for  he  reserved  all  his  strength  to  study  the  principal 
statues,  especially  their  anatomical  points.  The  Bel- 
vedere torso  was  a  special  revelation  and  inspiration. 
Winckelman  would  have  rejoiced  to  see  how  com- 
pletely he  took  in  at  one  look  its  surpassing  modelling 
and  to  hear  his  critical  remarks.  But  it  was  torture 
to    me  to   see   his  attenuated    figure,   enveloped  in 


—   52  — 


shawls,  standing  in  rapt  enjoyment  before  the  great 
marbles  of  the  Vatican  and  the  paintings  of  the  Sixtine 
Chapel,  unconscious  of  fatigue  and  unmindful  of  the 
attention  he  drew  on  himself  from  the  guardians  and 
visitors,  whose  looks  of  commiseration  and  wonder 
were  undisguised,  as  at  times  they  dropped  words  of 
sympathy  at  the  only  too  manifest  condition  of  his 
health.  For  days  afterwards,  as  he  recalled  what  he 
saw,  he  would  exclaim,  "What  statues!  What  statues!" 
utterinor  not  another  word.  When  he  first  entered 
St.  Peters,  his  observation  was  "What  proportions!" 
and  then  he  proceeded  to  examine  the  architectural 
details.  After  seeing  the  best  works  of  Raphael,  he 
said  :  "Compared  with  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael  is 
weak."  Some  one  was  reading  to  him  Kenyon  Cox's 
article  on  Michael  Angelo  in  the  Century^  in  which 
he  speaks  depreciatingly  of  him  as  if  he  would  not 
or  could  not  finish  his  work  and  was  greater  in  sug- 
gestion than  execution,  when  Pepero  quietly  asked  : 
"Does  he  call  the  Sixtine  Chapel  unfinished?" 

A  writer  describing  Herkomer  s  studio  makes  him 
say  that  the  only  great  woman  artist  is  Rosa  Bonheur. 
On  reading  this  Pepero's  comment  was:  "Rosa  Bonheur 
created  nothing;  she  only  copied  animals,  which  is 
the  lowest  kind  of  art."  Imitation  and  mere  copying 
he  would  not  recognise  as  true  art.  Only  creative 
invention,  original  ideas  and  not  simply  reproduction, 
however  clever,  answered  to  his  definition  of  high 
art.  Looking  at  some  of  the  best  American  work  in 


—  53  — 


Rome  and  Florence,  he  observed  :  "These  artists  do  a 
few  things  very  w-ell,  and  then  become  careless  and 
turn  out  hasty,  imperfect  work,"  at  the  same  time 
pointing  out  defects  in  modelling  and  drawing  that 
are  often  overlooked  even  by  old  artists.  While  doing 
justice  to  Vedder's  rare  powers  of  composition  he 
regretted  his  deficiency  of  graceful  outline  and  sense 
of  beauty,  which  a  more  careful  study  of  the  human 
frame  might  remedy. 

As  he  began  to  realize  in  Rome,  as  never  before, 
the  immense  scope  of  art,  how  much  there  was  to  do 
and  his  inability  to  do  it,  he  grew  more  silent  and 
reflective.  I  cannot  call  his  mood  absolute  sadness, 
for  he  was  ever  ready  to  make  and  enjoy  a  joke. 
•By  nature  he  was  inclined  to  merriment.  Only  a 
few  evenings  before  his  last  one  on  earth  he  laughed 
so  heartily  at  a  humorous  tale  that  we  almost 
cheated  ourselves  into  the  idea  that  after  all  his  illness 
might  not  be  as  grave  as  we  had  thought.  Although 
he  never  referred  to  his  complaint,  it  was  soon  evi- 
dent that  he  was  feeling  more  and  more  the  weight 
of  his  mortal  chains  and  longed  in  some  way  for  his 
freedom.  On  the  19th  Nov.  he  took  a  drive  in  the 
Campagna.  The  20th  was  rainy  and  he  stayed  indoors. 
In  the  afternoon  he  recited  as  usual  to  his  tutor,  put 
away  his  books  and  materials  with  his  customary 
scrupulous  neatness  and  care,  and  after  discussing 
with  Signor  Taccini  Alfieri's  poems  and  asking  if  he 
were  a  materialist,  laughed  and  joked,  saying  as  he 


bade  him  good  bye,  "Geometry  to-morrow."  At 
6  o'clock  I  left  him  eating  his  dinner  with  good  appe- 
tite, whilst  we  went  to  ours.  His  was  finished  and 
ours  but  half  done  when  the  electrical  bell  of  his  bed- 
room struck  a  sharp  note  and  immediately  after  it 
was  repeated.  Rushing  to  him  we  found  him  lying 
on  the  floor  by  his  bed,  breathing  his  last,  with  the 
blood  gushing  from  his  mouth.  He  was  unconscious, 
and  his  death  painless  and  instantaneous,  as  one 
might  wish  to  go  from  this  world  of  sorrow  and 
imperfection  to  one  of  joy  and  perfection;  free  at  last 
with  no  prolonged  agony,  but  transported  as  in  a 
chariot  of  flame  from  mortality  to  immortality.  In 
going  from  one  room  to  the  next,  summoning  us  to 
come  to  him  and  sinking  slowly  to  the  floor,  he  had 
passed  from  darkness  to  light,  from  his  earthly  to  his 
celestial  home,  to  the  latest  moment  in  the  full 
enjoyment  of  his  rare  intellectual  powers  and  love 
of  art. 

The  physician  said  a  blood  vessel  had  given  way 
close  to  the  heart.  But  what  mattered  the  material 
agency  so  that  he  triumphed  over  death  and  suffer- 
ing? A  sweet  smile  settled  on  his  lips  such  as  was 
common  in  his  playful  moods,  as  if  it  had  been  given 
him  the  power  to  animate  his  lifeless  form  with  a 
gleam  of  his  newly-found  bliss,  to  console  us  with 
the  assurance  that  his  ideal  world  was  now  open  to 
him.  We  felt  it  was  well  with  the  boy,  and  thanked 
the  Master  that  He  had  spared  him  a  lingering,  pain- 


—  5  5  — 


ful  entrance  into  His  king-dom.  As  he  had  dressed 
himself  on  the  morning  of  the  20th,  on  the  24th  Nov. 
he  was  put  into  the  earth  amidst  the  flowers  and 
foliage  of  the  Protestant  Cemetery,  where  repose  the 
remains  of  Shelley,  Keats  and  a  host  of  kindred 
spirits.  But  he  is  not  there,  mouldering  in  the  damp 
ground.  His  soul,  unstained  in  his  short  world-life, 
pure  and  undefiled,  flew  on  its  long-yearned-for 
"wings"  to  where  there  are  no  mourners  and  no  sin; 
where  progress  in  truth  and  beauty  is  eternal;  into 
one  of  the  "many  mansions"  of  Him  who  had  per- 
mitted the  lad  to  gladden  our  hearts  for  awhile  and 
then  recalled  him  to  his  true  home. 

No  "blasphemy  of  grief"  need  be  felt.  A  mer- 
ciful summons  had  called  him  to  where  he  was  free 
to  work  as  he  wished.  Shall  parents  mourn  at  such 
a  life  and  release  for  their  loved  ones  ?  Ought  we 
not  rather  to  envy  his  early  release?  He  was  pre- 
cious to  me  by  more  than  common  earthly  ties. 
He  was  more  than  a  son.  For  he  was  a  revelation 
in  my  eyes  of  the  possibilities  of  our  coming  school  of 
American  art ;  indeed  of  all  art,  founded  on  genuine 
inspiration,  and  developed  by  systematic  training; 
an  art  which  should  harmoniously  combine  reason, 
imagination  and  religion.  I  had  hoped  against  hope 
to  the  last  moment  that  he  might  be  spared  to 
reveal,  in  tangible,  intelligent  shape,  those  principles 
of  a  lofty,  idealistic  art  which  have  been  my  convic- 
tion   of  its  true  mission,  and  which  by  the   pen  — 


—  56  — 


the  gift  by  example  being  withheld  —  I  have  sought 
to  advocate.  The  Giver  of  all  good  gifts  had  bestowed 
this  talent  on  my  son  to  supply  my  deficiencies,  and 
to  demonstrate  by  an  elevated  art  what  I  could  only 
feebly  suggest  by  writing  in  opposing  the  low 
realism  of  the  art  of  the  day.  His  ideas  of  art  were 
not  taught  by  me.  I  do  not  think  he  ever  read 
anything  I  ever  wrote  on  the  subject.  His  intuition 
surpassed  all  my  own  slowly  acquired  convictions. 
One  glance  of  his  observing  eye  was  worth  more 
than  hours  of  observation  of  the  average  spectator 
or  student  like  myself.  Could  it  have  been  otherwise 
than  that  a  thrill  of  paternal  pride  should  permeate 
my  soul  whenever  I  looked  forward  to  his  possible 
future  ?  I  hoped  much  from  his  work  and  companion- 
ship in  his  manhood.  But  I  believe  it  is  now  better 
with  him  than  it  ever  could  have  been  here.  He 
came  and  went  like  a  beautiful  vision,  accomplished 
his  purpose  of  mortal  being  and  passed  tenderly  and 
lovingly  into  the  joy  of  his  Master. 

When  frail  Nature  can  no  more, 
Then  the  spirit  stril\:es  the  hour; 
My  servant  Death,  with  solving  rite, 
Pours  finite  into  infinite  — 

What  is  excellent. 
As  God  lives,  is  permanent ; 
Hearts  are  dust;  hearts'  lives  remain 
Hearts'  love  will  meet  again.  — 

Emerson. 


•    -  57  - 

As  a  valued  friend  beautifully  wrote:  "Your  boy 
resembles  a  drop  of  dew  which  disappears  from  this 
rude  earth  whilst  the  morning  is  still  fresh  and  pure." 
It  was  even  so. 

A  few  words  more  will  suffice  to  explain  more 
completely  the  mental  developement  of  the  boy-artist. 
It  was  not  a  precocious  phase  of  childhood,  but  a  na- 
tural, orderly  sequence  and  unfolding  of  faculties  in  a 
normal  progress  of  study  and  reflection,  with  much 
calculated  to  retard  rather  than  hasten  them.  Art 
was  the  dominating  passion,  yet  the  reasoning  and  per- 
ceptive faculties  were  as  active  as  the  imaginative,  and 
capable  of  being  directed  to  any  aim.  His  imagi- 
nation neither  seduced  his  judgment  nor  led  him  into 
deceptive  enthusiasms.  On  the  contrary  he  •  was 
remarkably  cool  and  what  practical  Yankees  call  level- 
headed, inclined  to  question  things  almost  to  the 
borders  of  scepticism  and  to  challenge  proofs.  His 
theory  of  practical  work  in  art  was  based  on  a  severe 
scientific  training  and  on  positive  studies,  which  he 
enjoyed  as  much  as  he  did  any  purely  sesthetic  gra- 
tifications. The  comprehensive  rapidity  of  his  observa- 
tions and  judgment  gave  the  impression  of  spon- 
taneous intuition,  as  if  knowledge  came  without  much 
effort  or  reflection.  But  his  conclusions  were  in  reality 
the  result  of  much  study  and  well-sifted  and  trained 
thought,  by  which  the  chaff'  was  separated  from  the 
wheat. 

Politics,  history  and  geography  also  occupied  his 


—  58  — 


attention,  whilst  a  subtle  play  and  sparkle  of  humor 
ever  illumined  his  conversation  with  the  few  adult 
friends  with  whom  he  felt  at  ease.  As  one  of  them  said 
to  me:  "We  never  cared  to  talk  platitudes  with  Pepero, 
for  they  met  with  cold  reception;"  adding  quaintly,  "He 
always  fired  into  the  sky,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  has  attained  at  last  the  paradise  ot  his  dreams." 

His  mind  was  more  philosophical  than  religious. 
Of  death  he  said  :  "We  must  all  die;  it  is  nothing." 
To  a  friend  who  was  encouraging  him  to  hope  for  im- 
provement, he  replied  :  "Why  wish  me  to  remain  here 
where  I  can  do  nothing?"  The  ordinary  pleasures  and 
honors  of  life  were  no  incentives  to  him  to  work. 
He  seemed  indifferent  alike  to  all.  As  a  rule,  he 
was  shy,  silent,  undemonstrative,  with  considerable 
timidity  of  self-assertion;  always  shrinking  from  ob- 
servation or  publicity  of  any  sort,  yet  holding  firmly 
to  his  opinions.  Intense  feeling  seemed  to  paralyze 
action.  But  not  a  little  of  his  love  of  solitude,  besides 
the  desire  of  being  uninterrupted  in  his  occupations, 
was  due  no  doubt  to  the  physical  weakness  which 
debarred  him  from  the  companionship  and  exercises 
proper  to  his  years.  Courage  and  daring  were  his 
prominent  traits  when  well. 

Marked  refinement  and  extreme  modesty  in  habits 
and  words  characterised  him  to  such  a  degree  as  to 
make  it  seem  impossible  that  anything  to  the  contrary 
could  enter  his  mind.  In  studying  the  human  form  as 
he  was  obliged  to,  he  was  as  impassive  to  the  differences 


of  sex  as  if  they  did  not  exist  for  him  or  had  no  other 
meaning  than  art  symbolism  or  any  neutral  fact  of 
nature.  No  truer  example  of  the  saying  that  "To  the 
pure  in  mind  all  things  are  pure"  could  exist.  This 
trait  prompted  him  to  special  refinement  and  neatness 
in  dress  and  habits.  He  had  no  sympathy  with  Bohe- 
mianism  in  art — the  careless  dressing,  general  untidi- 
ness and  eccentricities  of  speech  and  manners, 
affected  by  some  artists.  An  artist,  he  believed,  should 
be  in  all  respects  a  gentleman. 

He  was  generous;  ever  ready  to  give  from 
his  little  treasures  whatever  might  gratify  or  be  of 
service  to  another,  although  so  averse  to  showing  or 
bestowing  his  own  productions,  on  the  plea  of  their 
unworthiness.  Sound  opinions  and  habits,  mingled  with 
a  protective  reserve  and  caution  usually  only  begot- 
ten after  repeated  experiences  in  life  and  the  dis- 
pelling of  its  many-sided  illusions,  were  spontaneous, 
in  his  character,  manifesting  themselves  in  a  quiet 
wisdom  and  playfulness,  never  aggressive  or  dominat- 
ing, that  only  those  who  knew  him  intimately  could  fully 
perceive  and  appreciate.  To  complete  this  roundness 
of  individuality  he  had  an  equal  degree  of  heart, 
which  despite  its  stoical  reserve,  was  sympathetic  and 
loving  to  an  uncommon  extent  in  whatever  concerned 
the  welfare  and  happiness  of  those  about  him.  One  of 
his  most  attached  friends,  an  Italian,  wrote  me  :  "I  had 
always  told  him  he  had  the  heart  of  a  Csesar  (referring 
to  his  self-control);  but  it  was  only  necessary  to  speak 


—  6o  — 


of  the  sufferings  of  another  to  see  him  change  color 
and  to  manifest  how  sincere  was  his  sympathy." 

His  sense  of  the  ridiculous  was  remarkably  keen. 
When  listening  to  a  comical  story,  if  interrupted  by 
a  fit  of  coughing,  he  would  give  a  signal  to  stop 
until  it  was  over  and  then  join  in  the  merriment 
with  heartfelt  relish.  His  own  humor  was  seasoned 
with  poignant  and  suggestive  sarcasm  and  wit,  and  his 
eyes  were  as  expressive  as  the  tones  of  voice.  In 
imitation  he  was  masterly;  by  a  few  subtle  looks, 
gestures  and  exclamations  he  rendered  living  character 
as  graphically  as  he  could  by  the  pencil.  Possessing  a 
very  flexible  voice,  he  was  able  to  render  with  ludicrous 
accuracy  and  intonation  the  street  cries  of  itinerant 
vendors,  buyers  of  rags  and,  indeed,  sounds  of  any  sort. 
Nothing  really  escaped  his  observation  even  while  he 
appeared  to  be  quite  inattentive  or  indifferent  to  the 
panorama  of  life  about  him. 

On  the  more  serious  side  of  his  character,  his  con- 
ceptions of  God  and  religion,  divested  of  doctrinal 
bias,  were  elevated  and  comprehensive.  He  was  deeply 
interested  in  the  different  systems  of  religion  and 
philosophy.  The  Deity  represented  to  him  the  incar- 
nation of  goodness,  truth  and  beauty;  the  veritable, 
all  comprehending  bello,  only  to  be  adequately  realized 
in  an  existence  freed  from  the  illusions  and  suffering  of 
this  lower  life.  His  view  of  religion  was  a  simple, 
unspoken,  unquestioning  reliance  on  a  Supreme  Father 
who  ordered  all  things  wisely  and  well;  a  vivifying 


—  6i  — 


faith  that  called  for  no  public  rites  and  needed  no 
verbal  formulas  to  keep  it  alive  in  him  in  his  forced 
isolation  from  the  busy,  outside  world.  For  his  reason 
went  direct  to  the  core  of  truths^  clear  and  incisive, 
lifting  him  spiritually  above  the  vulgar  fears  and 
harassing  doubts  of  the  average  human  experience. 
Without  disturbing  his  mind  with  fruitless  theological 
speculations,  he  was  fond  of  discussing  with  his  tutor, 
the  nature  of  God,  immortality  of  the  soul  and  kin- 
dred topics,  in  a  philosophical  spirit,  avoiding  the  com- 
plexities of  conflicting  creeds,  calmly  observant  and 
inquiring,  as  Dante  walked  in  heaven  and  hell.  He 
continued  these  topics  even  to  the  last  hours  of  his  life, 
and  only  a  few  minutes  before  he  bade  Signor  Taccini 
what  proved  to  be  his  last  farewell,  he  begged  him 
to  remember  what  the  great  mind  of  St.  Augustine 
believed  regarding  the  sights  and  happiness  of  heaven. 

Enough  is  now  told  to  give  those  interested  in  his 
brief  career  an  idea  of  its  intellectual  and  moral 
aspects,  its  promise  and  its  earthly  ending.  Short 
indeed  it  was,  but  very  lovely  to  those  who  watched 
its  course. 

We  are  not  to  count  years,  but  their  fruit,  in  such 
examples  of  life.  If  we  look  at  them  only  on  the  side 
of  our  personal  hopes  and  loves,  they  are  appalling 
in  their  shortness  and  sorrow.  But  do  these  frag- 
ments of  a  perfect  whole  end  with  mortal  breath?  I 
think  not,  despite  that  so  many  of  the  learned  ones  of 
earth  declare  in  substance  death  to  be  the  final  ordinance 


—  62  — 


of  nature  and  bid  us  be  comforted,  for  it  is  the  uni- 
versal, inevitable  lot.  With  them,  from  nothing  we 
come,  and  to  nothing  we  go.  It  cannot  be  so,  for  what 
are  these  precious  fragments  and  examples  but  Divine 
pledges  of  a  life  beyond  the  grave;  a  life  of  illimitable 
progress  and  joy  to  those  who  seek  to  know  the 
Master?  This  is  my  faith  and  consolation  in  an  other- 
wise irremediable  loss. 

Among  the  many  letters  of  condolence  which  came 
from  widely  scattered  friends,  proving  how  the  great 
heart  of  humanity  feels  in  sympathy  in  these  trying 
events,  there  is  one  so  touchingly  brief  and  so  welcome 
to  a  parent's  heart,  that  I  must  give  it;  for  it  came 
from  one  who  knew  the  lad  and  who  is  himself  widely 
known,  W.  D.  Howells.  He  wrote  :  "Your  loss  is  all 
the  world's  loss  too,  for  no  more  beautiful  light  of 
genius  than  his  ever  faded  into  heaven,  leaving  the 
earth  forever  poorer." 

In  selecting  some  of  Pepero's  drawings  to  illustrate 
this  memorial  of  his  life  in  order  to  justify,  so  far  as 
they  may,  the  opinions  given  of  his  capacity  of  art, 
the  reader  is  again  reminded  that  they  are  the  pro- 
ductions of  a  boy  from  his  twelfth  to  his  fourteenth 
year;  the  slight  sketch  of  his  own  head  and  one  hasty 
humorous  drawing  only  being  done  a  few  months 
later.  I  divide  them  into  two  sections — -first,  copies 
of  drawings  by  old  and  modern  masters,  and,  secondly, 
his  own  origihal  designs.  Unfortunately,  all  are  more 
or  less  rubbed  and  worn,  owing  to  the  little  care  he 


—  63  — 


bestowed  on  them.  They  show,  however,  with  what 
ardor  he  studied;  the  nature  and  the  character  of  his 
choice  of  topics,  their  difficulties  and  with  what  facile 
fidelity  of  stroke,  without  systematic  instruction  or 
any  direct  study  from  life,  he  mastered  the  spirit  of 
the  originals;  the  fineness  and  accuracy  of  his  pen- 
strokes,  which  would  admit  of  no  correction,  the  gra- 
phic fidelity  of  his  pencil,  the  general  breadth,  bold- 
ness and  largeness  of  his  self-taught  methods,  and  the 
courage  and  persistency  with  which  he  tested  various 
styles.  Only  artists  can  fully  appreciate  his  experi- 
ments in  design  and  justly  balance  their  merits  and 
failures  under  his  conditions  of  work.  Those  who  are 
familiar  with  the  autograph  drawings  of  Lionardo^ 
Luini  and  Michael  Angelo  can  bear  testimony  to  the 
skill  shown  in  the  copies  of  them  done  from  photo- 
graphs of  the  originals  and  the  thoroughness  with 
*  which  he  depicted  their  varied  characteristics.  This 
fidelity  of  reproduction  is  equally  displayed  in  the 
imitations  of  the  modern  French  school,  which  he  took 
from  I'Art.  The  anatomical  studies  bear  witness  to 
his  earnestness  in  learning  the  elements  of  art.  And 
it  must  not  be  overlooked  that  all  these  illustrations 
are  simply  essays  in  feeling  his  solitary  way  along 
the  difficult  path  of  fine  art,  and  there  is  not  one 
which  he  would  have  consented  to  show  to  the  public 
as  worthy  of  its  notice,  or  that  might  be  looked  on 
as  anything  better  than  the  mere  chips  of  his  little 
workshop,  to  borrow  Max  Muller's  words. 


-  64  - 


SECTION  I. 

1.  Copied   from   Michael   Angelo's   drawing  of  the  "Damned 
Soul."    Original  in  Ufizzi  Gallery. 

2.  Copied  from  Michael  Angelo's  drawing   of   the  "  Female 
.  Head."    Original  in  Utizzi  Gallery. 

3.  Copied   from    drawing  by   Lionardo  da  Vinci.  Original  in 
Utizzi  Gallery. 

4.  Copied  from  drawing  by  Luini. 

5.  Copied  from  drawing  by  Lionardo. 

6.  Copied,  pen  and  ink,  from  I'Art.  Figure. 

7.  Copied,  red  chalk,  from  rAi't.  Head. 

8.  Copied,  charcoal,  from  I'Art.  Landscape. 

9.  Copied,  charcoal,  from  I'Art.  Marine. 

10.  Copied,  charcoal,  from  I'Art.  Came!. 
I  I.  Copied,  pencil.  Portrait  of  Titian. 

12.  Copied,  pencil,  from  I'Art. 

I  3.  Drawing,  red  chalk.    Anatomical  study. 

14.  Drawing,  after  old  Masters.   Anatomical  study. 

I  5.  Drawings,  after  old  Masters.    Anatomical  study. 

16.  Drawings,  after  old  Masters.    Anatomical  study. 

17.  Drawings,  pencil.   Anatomical  study. 

SECTION  II. 

18  and  19.  Original  compositions  for  a  painting  of  the  "Judgment 
cf  Solomon."   Ati3   years  old. 

20.  Original  composition  for  "Death  of  Goliath."  At  i3  years  old. 

21.  Original  composition  for  "Triumph  of  Alexander."    At  14 
years  old. 

22.  Original  composition,  "A  Joke  of  Two  Friends."   At  14  years 
old. 

23.  Crayon  "Portrait  of  a  Family  Servant  76  years  of  age."  A 
rapid  otf-hand  sketch  and  faithful  likeness.   At  i3   years  old. 

24.  Drawings  in  pen  and  ink.    Original  and  copies.    At  i3  years 
old. 


—  65  — 

25.  Drawings  in  pen  and  ink,  "Spirit  of  Evil  and  Minions."  Ori- 
ginal.   At  i3  years  old. 

26.  '"The  Spirit  of  Good  Showering  Good  Gifts  on  tlie  Earthi." 
Original.    At  i3  years  old. 

27.  "The  Spirit  of  Evil  Throwing  Down  Evils  on  the  Earth." 
Original  and  study.    At  14  years  old. 

28.  "The  Last  Judgment."  Red  and  white.  Original.   At  14  years 
old. 

29.  Studies  of  action  and  form.    First  thoughts.  Original. 

30.  Pencil  drawing  of  his  own  head.    [See  title  page.)  Nov.,  1884. 

31.  Statuette  in  marble  of  a  Dying  Youth.    Original  done  in  his 
1 3th  year. 

Maiiy  of  the  above  illustrations  are  simply  rough 
and  incomplete  memoranda  of  ideas  and  movement, 
losing  much  in  their  twofold  transfer,  but  indicating 
his  bias  in  art  and  what  direction  it  would  have 
taken  had  he  survived.  Its  tendency  was  not  to  land- 
scape or  modern  realism,  but  human  form  and  charac- 
ter idealized  with  a  predilection  for  the  grand,  beau- 
tiful and  supernal. 

At  the  request  of  friends  I  exhibited  "The  Spirit  of 
Evil"  and  "The  Last  Judgment'  at  the  Boston  Foreign 
Exhibition  of  i883.  They  elicited  considerable  atten- 
tion and  criticism,  and  he  received  a  medal  for  them. 

Those  who  most  admired  them,  however,  thought 

it  was  singular,  and  almost  to  be  deplored,  that  the 

imagination  of  a  young  lad  should  be  so  possessed 

of  imagery  and  ideas  which  were  morbidly  terrifying 

and  unwholesome.    But  they  had  no  such  effect  on 

him,  for  it  was  only  in  an  artistic  sense  of  symbo- 

5 


—  66  — 


lization  that  he  regarded  them.  It  is  to  be  noted  that 
equal  skill  and  delight  are  shown  in  the  humorous 
and  classical  compositions  and  the  academic  treatment 
of  the  later  Renaissance  schools.  He  was  simply 
trying  his  unfledged  powers  in  various  directions. 

No  20  shows  a  delicate  pre-Raphaelite  sentiment 
and  treatment  of  landscape  with  special  fidelity  of  detail. 
No  21  is  classical  in  tone  and  is  a  pen  and  ink 
drawing  20  inches  by  25.  In  a  moment  of  pleasantry, 
while  occupied  with  his  mathematics,  he  threw  off 
No  22,  which  evinces  the  humorous  turn  of  mind 
he  often  indulged  in. 

Nos.  26,  27  and  28,  studies,  deserve  explanation. 
The  first  may  be  called  the  Gateway  of  Paradise. 
Through  it  is  seen  an  archangelic  being  hovering  over 
the  earth,  blowing  out  of  his  trumpet  amorini  or 
baby  angels,  who  are  joyfully  showering  down  on 
mankind  good  gifts  and  blessings  in  the  form  of  fra- 
grant flowers.  The  conception  is  wholly  original  with 
him,  and  would  form  an  appropriate  Christmas  card  or 
could  be  elaborated  into  a  church  window  in  glass. 

The  second  consists  of  several  sketches  or  ideas  of 
"The  "Spirit  of  Evil,"  a  Miltonic  conception  made  into 
a  composition  that  may  be  aptly  called  "The  Gate  of 
Heir\  Satan,  in  a  new  form  as  the  arch-enemy  of  men, 
is  blowing  through  his  terrible  trumpet  flames,  which 
change  into  imps  rejoicing  in  their  mission  to  torment 
the  sons  of  men.  It  will  be  remarked  in  the  former 
drawing  that  the  Good  Spirit  floats  gracefully  in  the 


air,  self-suspended  by  his  will,  without  the  usual 
symbolic  wing,  etc.  But  the  Bad  Spirit  soars  aloft 
by  the  aid  of  wings  of  diabolical  dimensions  of  power, 
wielding  a  sword  of  flame.  His  wrathful,  malignant 
trumpet-calls,  as  he  pours  out  diseases,  famines,  wars 
and  every  calamity  on  the  human  race,  affright  even 
his  ministering  Satans,  who  shrink  back  from  their 
allotted  task,  but  are  held  to  their  work  in  the  coils  of 
a  monstrous  dragon,  which  springs  from  and  is  part  of 
the  will-power  of  their  chief,  linked  lightly  to  his  not 
ungracious  form,  for  he  was  in  the  begining  an  arch- 
angel of  light  and  retains  traces  of  the  beauty  which 
once  distinguished  him  in  the  hosts  of  heaven.  But  out 
of  his  wings  sprout  up  little  imps  of  most  diabolical  form 
and  looks  of  mischief.  Beneath,  in  the  burning  pit, 
lost  souls  hear  the  awful  clamor  and  are  aghast ; 
whilst  their  attending  demons  are  gloating  over  the 
prospect  of  fresh  victims  and  ministering  serpents  are 
hissing  their  venomous  approbation.  The  rugged, 
rustic  blocks  of  the  columns  of  the  Gate,  with  their 
architrave  of  ghastly,  uncanny  rocks,  out  of  which  come 
inhuman  forms  of  consuming  vices  and  crimes,  with 
batlike  wings  and  faces  of  nightmare  horror,  sounding 
an  infernal  fanfare,  are  in  keeping  with  the  capitals  of 
the  columns,  which  are  formed  of  tongues  of  flame, 
in  the  midst  of  which  are  seen  beings  half-formed  or 
half-consumed  of  archangelic  figure  but  dspraved  voli- 
tion, coming  to  contribute  their  forces  to  the  misery 
and  destruction  of  mankind.    Emphatically  increasing 


—  68  — 


the  powerfully-imagined  spectacle  of  horror,  are  two 
grinning  reptiles  of  immense  size,  tiger-striped,  with 
dragon's  scales  and  ferocious  claws  slimily  circling 
the  columns  with  their  sinuous,  slow-gliding  bodies; 
their  pitiless  eyeSj  repulsive  jaws  and  savage  heads, 
each  with  a  distinctive  individuality,  fitly  symbolizing 
the  dread  will  power  of  the  Lord  of  Sin  and  Death. 
The  drawing  is  18  inches  by  20. 

No  28,  a  red  and  white  chalk  drawing  20  inches  by 
24,  is  noteworthy  for  the  vigor  with  which  the  heralds 
of  the  Archangel  Michael  blow  their  trumpets,  sum- 
moning- the  writhino-  condemned  to  descend  into  outer 
darkness.  Charon,  seated  on  a  double-headed  winged 
dragon,  waving  a  serpent  as  a  scourge,  hurries  and 
harries  them  downwards.  The  variety  of  robust  pose, 
movement,  foreshortening  and  the  general  whirl  and 
turmoil  of  the  various  groups,  their  despair  at  the 
sight  of  the  yawning  gulfs  below  and  the  expectant 
demons  lurking  in  their  depths,  all  combine  to  manifest 
the  influence  of  Michael  Angelo  and  a  daring  attempt 
to  treat  the  same  impossible  theme — its  very  defects 
suggesting  a  masterly  impulse  and  touch.  Older,  he 
would  not  have  sought  to  cope  with  the  "terrible" 
Tuscan,  even  in  a  single  episode  of  a  composition 
which  needs  more  than  mortal  strength  to  handle. 
At  the  same  time  it  demonstrates  the  quality  of 
his  ambition,  with  a  result  which  even  Michael 
Angelo  himself  might  not  have  scorned  at  his  age. 

In  keeping  with  the  above  designs   is  the  rude 


_  69  - 

first-thought  in  red  chalk  of  a  Satan  with  demons  of 
very  original  grimness  of  fancy  threatening  the  earth, 
represented  below  them  by  a  part  of  the  ocean  with 
a  ship  scudding  before  a  furious  blast  that  issues  from 
the  trumpet  of  one  of  the  goblin  satellites,  whilst  the 
whirls  of  a  fast  forming  cyclone  are  looming  up  on 
the  horizon.  On  the  same  sheet  is  the  suggestion  of 
angelic  interference  in  a  supernal  form  substancing 
an  imploring  mortal  and  pointing  upward.  This  motif 
was  not  carried  out  and  seems  to  have  been  aban- 
doned or  postponed.  There  is  a  grasp  and  inventive 
idea  more  than  hinted  at  that  is  worthy  of  Dore  or  other 
masters  of  the  complex,  mystical  and  supernatural. 

Of  a  wholly  different  character,  pathetic  in  its 
sweetness  and  expression  of  hopeless  ending  of  youth- 
ful dreams  is  the  plastic  dying  youth,  taken  from  an 
unsatisfactory  photograph  of  his  first  attempt  at  mo- 
deling in  clay,  don  3  in  his  i3th  year,  an  unconscious 
prophecy  of  his  own  fate. 

No  3o  is  taken  from  the  outline  drawing  he  made 
of  his  own  head  a  few  days  before  his  death. 


DRAWINGS 


I 


2. 


2 


4- 


5. 


i3. 


I 


il 

i 


23. 


24. 


26. 


27. 


28. 


GETTY  RESEARCH  INSTIT^ 


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